


The Language of Strength

by Julilla



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Aelle of Northumbria, F/M, Great Heathen Army, Northumbrian history, Sigurd Snake-in-the-eye, Vikings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2017-06-18
Packaged: 2018-09-09 12:08:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 37,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8890210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Julilla/pseuds/Julilla
Summary: Blaeja of Northumbria learning to speak the language of strength in order to survive among the Vikings.





	1. The Captured Raven

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!  
> This is the first chapter of my fanfic about Blaeja of Northumbria. In it, she has a meeting with Ragnar, who is her father's captive.  
> Let me know if you like this, as well as what I could improve upon.  
> More chapters to come (hopefully)!  
> This is my first time writing fanfic, so please be kind.

And then it was silent. 

He made no move, just sat there looking at her with an expression that she couldn’t place. Was it contempt? Interest? Boredom? Blaeja swallowed. The silence stretched. Was he trying to unnerve her? Or did he just not care why she was here? 

Looking at this man, so controlled and sphinx-like, with a hint of a smile on his lips as he looked her up and down, Blaeja felt very much like a child, and began to rethink her impulsive decision to speak with him. 

He was scraggly, and worn-looking, with a long beard, bruises, and torn clothing – even more bedraggled than most of the prisoners that Blaeja had seen – yet there was something else about him that hinted at the fact that this man was so much more than a condemned criminal, or a petty pirate. A stillness in the way he sat. And his eyes. Blaeja wanted to look away, for she had the feeling that those piercing green eyes could see straight through her own into her soul, and that what he saw there amused him. She tightened her lips.

“Come to laugh at me, then?” The voice was contempt and sorrow and dark amusement rolled together quietly, so quietly that she had to strain to hear it, yet somehow magnified by the damp stone walls, and so intense that Blaeja wanted to turn away.

“No.” She would not look away from him. His eyes were like the eyes of a captured raven, filled with dark things that she could not name.  
“Then why are you here?” He tilted his head and raised his eyebrows in a very haughty way, as if she was a disagreeable child that he wished to shoo away from his doorstep. For some reason, that grated on her, but she resolved not to show it.

“Do you even know who I am?” She said it calmly, and still did not look away.

“It’s not exactly hard to guess, little princess.” And he made an awkward, mocking half-bow from his seated position, hands thrown dramatically wide, a larger smile coming over his thin lips.

Blaeja was not amused, and he seemed to sense it. His smile grew ever wider. “Oh. I’ve angered you, haven’t I?” He said it playfully, never taking his eyes from her face.

But Blaeja could play too. “It’s not my anger that you should be worried about, northman.”

At this, the smile slowly faded. “So, you are here to laugh at me. Well, that wasn’t hard to guess, either.” And he leaned back against the wall, finally looking away, seeming to dismiss her from his world. Again, the silence stretched.

Blaeja wet her lips. She considered leaving, but her feet would not turn. The same instinct that had led her here – the need to see this man, whose name she had heard in whispers throughout her whole childhood – had hold of her, and she found herself moving forward, towards him.

“Do you see me laughing?” She stopped not two paces away from him, keeping her face as neutral as she knew how, her heart beating faster in her chest. “I merely wanted to see you. To speak to you.”

“Why?”

“Why do you think?”

When he looked back up at her, she was taken aback by the anger that she saw in his narrowed eyes. “I think you’re here to play silly games with a man who is to die. Does it make you feel grown up, little princess?" He snorted, but more in a tired sort of defeat than in contempt. “But what do you know about being anything other than a child? Have you ever even seen anyone die? Have you ever matched wits with a real enemy, one that is not sitting in a dungeon in chains? Of course not. You live in a sheltered palace, with servants to leap to your every whim. I am preparing to face death, and here you are teasing me. So say what you came to say and leave me in peace.”

The blood roared in Blaeja’s ears, and rather than back away, she lowered her face to his until she felt his breath on her cheeks. When she spoke, her voice was low, and barely audible, even to her. “What do you know of my life?” she whispered. “Hmm? I watched my mother die in pain, in a room empty except for me, because I was the only one who cared about her. My father did not even allow a priest to be with her in her final moments, and do you know what? He didn’t feel a single hint of remorse about it. And every single day of my life since, I have had to live with the knowledge that he cares about me not a whit more.” Why was she telling him this? The words kept coming.

“The only thing that keeps me alive is my value to him. The minute I become more of a hindrance than a help to my father, my life will be over. You say that I’ve never had to match wits with an enemy? I have had to do it every day of my life since I was ten, when my mother died and left me alone in this nest of vipers.”

And Blaeja stared straight into those raven-green eyes, and did not move. 

His hand moved, so fast she didn’t even have time to flinch, encircling her neck. He could have choked her unconscious, but he did not apply pressure. Instead, he simply moved to tilt her chin up. Blaeja froze as he examined her face.

“Your eyes,” he whispered slowly. “They are not your father’s eyes. I suppose I should have seen that.”

This was not the response Blaeja had been expecting. “What?” she asked.

He slowly lifted his hand from her neck. “I know your father. He is a stupid beast. I thought you’d be cut from his mold; you look so much like him.  
“But I didn’t see your eyes. They are not the eyes of a spoiled, vengeful child. I misjudged you.” He leaned back, a guarded look coming over his features. “I’m tired of playing games. Tell me what you want with me.”

Blaeja sat down and smiled slightly, her anger loosening its hold. “The famous king of Kattegat cannot even venture a guess? I thought that this was the man that could read and defeat Ecbert in a sentence.”

His eyes narrowed a fraction. “Ecbert has simple motives. In many ways, he is much like your own father: he cares only for himself.” He smiled slightly, slyly, catlike. “And, he is unafraid to throw away his own family to get what he wants. The only difference between the two is that Ecbert has patience, and that is what makes him dangerous.”

Blaeja could finally see the path that this conversation was following. Why she was here. “And what makes you dangerous, Ragnar Lodbrok?”

“The famous princess of Northumbria cannot even venture a guess?” he teased. There was a strange light in his eyes – was it a challenge?

Blaeja thought through the stories she had heard of this man – the terrifying warrior, the brilliant strategist, the man who had at one point commanded one of the largest armies Northumbria had ever witnessed. She thought of the Christian priest who had been willing to die for him, the brother who nearly did, and warriors that had seemed eager to. And she had her answer.

“Loyalty,” she responded. “You command not just fealty, but personal loyalty from those who fought with you. And that is what made you so difficult to defeat. My father only accomplished it after you seemed to have lost the same respect that you once commanded.”

He raised his eyebrows in surprise, but said simply, “There are many who would agree with you.”

Blaeja snorted. “No, there aren’t. Most people wouldn’t even consider it. They would cite your strategic mind, or the size of your armies, or the speed of your ships.”

“And you don’t think that they are right?”

“No. Now that I’ve seen you, I know better.”

He looked at her with something akin to respect in his eyes. “You are right in some ways, child, but you are missing something important.”

“What?” she challenged.

He leaned forward, his eyes now flickering with something hot, something that made her want to lean away. “You said it yourself, but dismissed it, and you shouldn’t have.” His voice was slow, deliberate. “I know how to… read people. I can always figure out what they want, what drives them. And that, that is how to really control someone.”

His mouth set, and he leaned even closer, his lips nearly touching her ear. Despite herself, Blaeja shivered. “I know what you want,” he whispered.

Blaeja felt as though she were teetering on the edge of a cliff: the slightest move the wrong way, and she would plummet to her death. She stayed very still. “Tell me,” she responded.

“You want control,” he said, softly. “You want freedom. And you want choice.” He paused. “That is why you came here; you wanted to know how to step out from your father’s control. It is a wise thing to want. Do you know why?”

Blaeja did not respond, but stayed stock still. He continued. “Choice is power. Freedom. Control.” Slowly, he leaned back, away from her. “You are wise to want choice. That is where you will find power. And that is what your father does not understand. He does not recognize, like you, where power comes from, or the strength of loyalty. But he will find out soon.” That brought a twisted smile to his lips.

Blaeja narrowed her eyes. “Is that a threat?”

He laughed a bitter laugh. “No, Aellesdottir. That is a promise. I might not be a seer, but I have enough foresight to see the road your father has placed all of our feet on.”

Blaeja had no idea what he meant, but something in his voice sent a chill down her spine. 

But then she heard footsteps coming, and stood up quickly. The guard was coming. She had little time left, but she looked at him seriously. “My father means to kill you, King Ragnar Lodbrok. You do realize that?” She was not sure what drove her to say it, but the words were out before she could stop them.

He looked straight up at her. There was no hint of fear on his face, and a sense of admiration came over her. “I’d be a poor sort of king if I didn’t.” And he looked away, seeming almost amused.

“You are quite the riddle, Ragnar Lodbrok,” Blaeja said. He smiled slightly, but did not meet her eyes.

The guard opened the door. “My lady.”

She nodded, and moved to leave. “Thank you.”

Suddenly, as the door was closing, she heard his voice again, softly. “Blaeja.”

She turned, startled. How did he know her name? She motioned for the guard to wait.

He hesitated, then spoke. “A long time ago, our seer told me that one of my sons would marry the daughter of a king.” He looked evenly into her face.

“What?” she exclaimed. “What are you talking about?” And then she realized what he was trying to tell her, and she could feel her expression harden.

“I am hardly the only princess in England, never mind the rest of the world, Ragnar Lodbrok,” she said firmly. “If you think that I will marry one of your sons, you are mistaken. I will never marry a pagan. I would die first.” She motioned to the guard.

He snorted. “As you say, princess.” 

And the door closed. But his words remained.


	2. The Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place one year, six months later than Chapter 1, after Ragnar's sons arrive in Northumbria.

One year, six months later. 

Blaeja’s heart was pounding as she paced back and forth, and she absently wiped her sweaty palms on her dress. She had no idea what was going to happen in the next few hours, or even in the next few minutes. She had done her best to prepare, but the simple fact remained that she was completely unsure as to what was going to happen.

Was it a good thing that her father hadn’t summoned her? She was angry that he had decided to deny her access to the first part of the meeting, but at the same time, if she had been summoned, she would have been very nervous amongst those men. Those men who were threatening her beloved Northumbria. And angry. 

And she could not trust her judgement when she was angry and afraid. For all that she had a normally calm temperament, she had seen herself fly into a rage before, and remembered feeling completely helpless in the face of her own anger, as if it were a runaway horse that she was powerless to stop. 

Of course, her own rages were nothing compared to her father’s, and that was another thing that she was nervous about. His petty vanity… she had seen it be manipulated before. Even now, he could be destroying the future of Northumbria while she was unable to try and stop it. Blaeja tried to swallow past the lump in her throat.

“My lady, won’t you sit down?” That was her servant, Eleanor. 

Blaeja was likely making her nervous. The poor girl had spent an hour doing Blaeja’s hair in the intricate, becoming style that she liked best, and a further hour helping her to bathe and dress, and here Blaeja was pacing the room furiously, with tendrils of hair coming loose from their plaits.

She took a deep breath, told herself firmly that she was being ridiculous, and made her way over to her chair. Then, there was a sharp rap on the door. 

Blaeja practically flew across the room, wrenching the door open so fast that the poor guard on the other side jumped in shock, nearly dropping his spear. 

He eyed her warily, then said, “My lady, please come with me. The king has requested that you join him.” 

Eleanor drew in a sharp breath. Blaeja’s heart started to pound even faster. Should she be afraid, or relieved?

“I’m ready. Please lead the way,” she said. She shut the door behind her, straightened her spine, and followed the man away.

A loose piece of dark hair fell into her peripheral vision, but Blaeja shrugged mentally. There was nothing she could do about it now.

As they approached the receiving room, Blaeja tried to center herself, without much success. Her heart kept on stubbornly pounding, despite whatever she did to try to calm it down. She knew that above all, she must keep her temper. She was about to meet Ragnar’s sons. If they were anything like their father, she would need all of her wits about her. Northumbria was depending on them. England was depending on them. Blaeja said a quick prayer. 

“God, give me strength. Help me to do what is best for my people in accordance with thy will. In the name of thy son Jesus I pray. Amen.”

She felt a little better. With God’s help, she could do this. 

Couldn’t she? Don’t think like that… 

They were at the door. Blaeja stopped, her heart pounding wildly, and reminded herself to breathe. Just breathe. Stay calm. 

Breathe.

The guard opened the door, and she walked through.

All of the men were sitting around the long table, looking tense and tight. Blaeja examined each one, noting the four she did not know, who were studying her intently.

The Northmen. The leaders. The sons of Ragnar.

Blaeja felt a thrill of fear run through her, and made her face a mask. 

Two of the Northmen sat on the right side of the table, two on the left. They were all armed, with axes, knives and swords, and they all had a kind of energy about   
them, a readiness, as if they were prepared for anything at a moment’s notice. Blaeja took all of this in in the space of a moment.

What threw her was how young they looked. Two of the Vikings couldn’t be older than she was, with smooth cheeks and fair skin. They were barely more than boys!   
She worked to keep her surprise from her face, desperately trying not to give anything away.

And at the same time, her instincts began shouting a warning, cautioning that she was falling into the trap of underestimating them. These men were young, but that did not make them any less dangerous. There was violence in their faces, in their posture.

They had a huge army at their backs, one that had filled the heart of every Northumbrian with fear, so much so that they were calling it the Great Heathen Army. And despite their youth, by all indications, they knew well how to lead that army. They had taken East Anglia without even having to raise a sword. 

All of them were watching her, with interest. With something darker?

She walked past them, feeling as though she was made of stone, her feet echoing through the empty room. She stopped to give her father a quick bow, which he barely seemed to take notice of. Blaeja groaned inwardly, for she could tell from the redness of his eyes and the sneering leer of his mouth that he was both deep in his cups, and losing. Dear God. What could she do?

She waited for Aelle to motion for her to take her seat, which was at the end of the table closest to him, and beside one of his nobles, but for some reason, he did not. In fact, he wasn’t even looking at her. He was watching the Northmen intently, who were staring back at Blaeja. Looking her up and down. The other Northumbrian nobles weren’t looking at her either, but at the Vikings, turning anxious-looking eyes to their faces. Why wouldn’t her father allow her to sit? Why wasn’t anyone meeting her eyes? Something was wrong. Something was making the air too thick to breathe, choking her with tension. Something…

And then she got it.

Blaeja thought that the world had flipped upside down. Her knees turned to water. 

“No!” The word burst from her lips before she could stop it. Everyone, startled, turned their eyes to her. She felt sick. This couldn’t be happening. It couldn’t be. How could her father be entertaining the thought?! 

“Father, please…” the words stuck in her throat. Don’t faint, don’t faint…

He finally turned to look at her. “Be quiet, girl,” he snarled at her.

There was nothing but cold anger in his voice. No compassion. No reassurance. 

He turned back to the Viking men. “Well? Is she acceptable to you?” he spat.

One of the monks, who was standing beside her father’s chair, repeated the words in the harsh, guttural tones of the Vikings’ language.  
Blaeja decided that if she didn’t sit down right then that she was going to faint, and without waiting for Aelle’s permission, she pulled her chair out and dropped into it. A servant detached herself from the side of the room, and filled the goblet in front of Blaeja with wine. It looked like blood.

The Northmen were sitting at the other end of the table, so as they leaned forward to converse in low tones, Blaeja didn’t catch what they said. But most of them were glancing at her and nodding, and Blaeja felt her heart sink even deeper. 

She couldn’t hold her silence any longer. “So, I am going to be sold to men whose names I don’t even know?” And she said it loudly, in the Viking language. 

The talking stopped. They all stared. The weight of their eyes on her felt almost physical; such was the intensity in their faces.

One of the Northmen, calmer-looking than the others, hesitated a moment before asking, “You speak our language?” He had a strange accent, the emphasis on all the wrong sounds, and it took her a heartbeat longer than normal to understand what he had said. 

“It would appear so,” she said, drily.

Aelle turned to her angrily. “What are you telling them?” he asked.

Blaeja did not flinch. “I am asking their names,” she replied calmly.

The monk beside her father – Brother Paul, she remembered – nodded in the affirmative.

Blaeja turned back to the Northmen, trying to push down her anger and swallow her fear. She couldn’t lose her head if she wanted to get out of this. Help me, God. 

She did not speak, but raised her eyebrows expectantly. 

The one who had spoken to her cleared his throat. “My name is Ubbe. These are my brothers: Hvitserk,” he gestured to the man sitting across from him, with light brown hair and a slight smile on his lips, “Sigurd,” he nodded to the one next to him, with light hair and an angry set to his mouth. He was one of the Northmen who had seemed so absurdly young to command an army. Ubbe paused. “And Ivar.” He directed his eyes to the youngest-looking of the men, who looked at her and smiled a smile that did not reach a pair of cold eyes. “We are the sons of Ragnar Lodbrok.” And here he glanced at her father, a touch of anger coming into his impassive face. 

Blaeja felt weak with fear. Her father had killed theirs. She could guess what they wanted with her. She was going to be the bargain. Her father had wanted to reach a compromise with the Northmen, and she had known that he would sacrifice anything for it. Their army had him desperate, and a desperate man is a man who will do anything.

But Blaeja had never seen this coming. Never had she thought that her father would sacrifice her.

The youngest, Ivar, suddenly leaned forward. There was an unpleasant light in his eyes, a light that reminded her of his father’s penetrating gaze, somehow, but his expression chilled her instead of intriguing her like Ragnar’s. There was something about him that made Blaeja feel like a mouse that he wanted to play with before eating.

His voice was soft, and cold. “How did you learn our language?” he asked her.

“Our Brother Ambrose taught me,” she told him.

“Then you are a Christian?” he said it as though it were disgusting to him.

“Yes, I am a Christian.” She looked directly into those cold blue eyes. She would not let a pagan belittle her into treating her religion as something shameful.

Ivar gave a little, mocking laugh, and turned to Brother Paul. “Why were we not told she could speak our language?”

“Does it matter?” Brother Paul returned. “She is still beautiful, no?”

Ivar shrugged. “Beautiful enough.” His mouth stretched into a full, unpleasant smile. “Is she a virgin?”

Blaeja was on her feet. “How dare you!” she spat.

Before she realized what was happening, Aelle was out of his chair, and his hand flashed out and backhanded her across the face. She fell to the ground, blinded by tears, her ears filled with a roaring. Her cheek was on fire, her hair falling out of its careful plaits to spill over her face.

Still worse was the knowledge that he had struck her. He had struck her! Blaeja tried to draw in a breath, and heard herself let out a sob. She shouldn’t have raised her voice to a guest…

She couldn’t let them see her on the ground. She tried to stand, but the world spun about, and she found herself back on her hands and knees.

She heard Aelle’s voice. “My daughter will do this. You will have her as part of the exchange.” Brother Paul, his voice a little unsteady, translated her father’s words.

Blaeja felt along her face. The world was starting to stabilize, and the worst of the damage seemed to be a cut lip. Her eye felt fine. She managed to push herself to her knees. 

Then one of the other Northmen spoke, an interesting, almost musical quality to his voice, even as it was filled with anger. “You are a beast, King Aelle,” he said. “You killed our father like a coward, and you treat your own daughter like a slave. The gods spit on men such as you.”

As Brother Paul was translating, Blaeja finally stood, and returned to her chair. She pressed her sleeve against the cut on her lip, and tried desperately not to cry. Tears are a weakness, don’t cry, don’t cry…

It was the blond one, Sigurd, who seemed to have spoken. The angry set to his mouth was still there, but when he glanced at Blaeja, she saw something almost like pity in his eyes. She closed her eyes and looked down at the table, feeling humiliated that they should have witnessed her father mistreat her. Aelle wasn’t even looking at her. “At least I won’t go to hell as a pagan,” he said darkly.

Before Brother Paul could translate, Ivar broke in. “And the rest of our bargain will hold?”

When this was translated, Aelle nodded, smiling. “Oh, yes. You’ll have your ox hide. And my daughter.”

What was he talking about? An ox hide? Blaeja had no idea. All she knew was that she was being sold like a horse, and she wanted to scream and cry all at once. Her anger rose up unchecked, and she felt for a moment that it was going to tear its way free of her chest and go after her father all on its own.

Ivar smiled again. “Then you’ll have your peace, King.”

He raised his cup. “Skål,” he said. His brothers did the same.

The Northumbrians raised their cups. Aelle turned to look at her.

Slowly, Blaeja raised her cup.

And then, moving with deliberate slowness, she tipped the it gently over. As if it were eager to lend her its voice to make up for the one she could not use, the wine loudly splashed onto the floor.

The goblet followed it with a clatter.

“Skål,” Blaeja said, into the deafening silence of the room.

And before anyone could stop her, she marched out of the room, a tear running down her face to mix with the blood beading red on her lip.


	3. Departure of a Ghost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place 3 days after Chapter 2.

Hostage. Captive. Prisoner. 

Those were the only words she had now. She heard them over and over, echoing through her mind. The story of her life had been obliterated by those words, giant letters dominating her fragile pages, blood-red ink running with her tears. 

And the other word. The one that was too terrible to name, looming on the next page, waiting for her, inevitable. 

Concubine.

Yes, that would be her fate among the Northmen – if she was lucky. If not… Good God. How could this be happening?

She was barely aware of Eleanor helping her dress. Barely aware of her putting her warmest dresses, boots, cloaks into a bag. She looked at her reflection in the basin. Her hair was braided and pinned up, though she didn’t know how that had happened. She could still see the red line of the cut on her lip, though it had mostly faded. How had that green cloak come to rest over her shoulders? Oh, God. Her mother’s cloak. How could she wear it? Mother, help me…

The sun was not yet up. But there was a rosy glow in the East. Or was it the West? The whole world had been turned upside-down. She was being given to them… Why shouldn’t the sun rise in the West?

“Blaeja! Blaeja!” It was her little brother’s voice. What could she say to him? How could she articulate the betrayal of her father? How could she put the unimaginable into words?

But when he ran through the door, he didn’t say a word. He just ran to her. She knelt as he threw his arms around her. Blaeja told herself not to cry. She didn’t want his last memory of her to be of a defeated, crying sister, going to her fate like a criminal to the block. But the tears didn’t seem to care, and they came anyway, plopping onto his small shoulder as she hugged him tightly.

After a minute or a year, she gave a sniff and pulled away, looking into his eyes.

He was trying not to cry too, she saw. His eyes were red and his nose was running. She gripped his shoulders hard. “No, Ecgberht,” she said firmly. “I won’t let you cry for me!” He gave a sniff, but she ignored it. She had to make him understand why she was doing this. He was just a boy, but he was a prince first and foremost, and that was what mattered. She took his chin in her hand and stared into his eyes.

“Are you listening to me, Ecgberht?” she asked. “This is important. You are our future. You are the future of Northumbria. You can’t forget it, do you understand? I know you don’t want me to leave.” She swallowed, then continued. “But sometimes we have to make sacrifices for our people. For our future. And no one has to make more sacrifices than we do, because we are prince and princess. Do you understand? Our country comes first, because we are her future.”

She took a deep breath, and continued. “This is what it means to rule, Ecgberht. I need you to understand that, because we are depending on you.” She could hear the desperation creep into her voice. “I am depending on you.” She gave him a little shake, and to her relief, he nodded. 

“Yes, Blaeja. I know.” He swallowed, and looked away. “But I don’t want you to go! I can’t do it without you!” His voice rose to a wail as the tears started to spill down his face.

“You have to, Ecgberht. You have to because there is no one else. You are our prince.”

“But I’m not clever like you are, Blaeja,” he whispered.

Blaeja had thought that a heart that had turned to stone couldn’t break, but hers broke then. How could she leave him? How was this possible…

She cupped his cheek in her hand. “Oh, my dear brother. You are so much smarter than you know. I’ve watched you grow up, and I know it. I can see that you are clever. And you have a good heart, which is so much more important. Keep hold of that, and God will guide you through this.”

Eleanor leaned down to tap her on the shoulder. “My lady! They are coming. You must make haste.”

Blaeja swallowed. “All right.” She gave Ecgberht one last hug, feeling his tears wetting her shoulder, and then stood. She took her bag in one hand and her brother’s hand in the other. Then she took a final look around the room, and walked out the door.

Her father’s house was not far from the city gate, but the walk seemed to take ten years. She saw few people. The sun was only just starting to come up. No one approached her, and no one met her gaze. Blaeja felt as though she were already a ghost. 

Her death was only a matter of time, and the world seemed to know it.

When she was almost to the gate, another familiar face appeared, and despite it all, Blaeja smiled. 

Brother Ambrose looked just as he always did in his brown monk’s habit, belted with simple rope. His face was kind and homely, framed by bushy eyebrows. He might have been twenty or forty, for all Blaeja could tell, and through all of the time she had known him, he never seemed to age. He walked towards her and took the bag from her hands, placing it on the ground. 

“My lord,” he said to Ecgberht. “I require a moment alone with the princess.” And Ecgberht reluctantly let go of Blaeja’s hand, and retreated a few paces away. 

Gently, Brother Ambrose took her chilly hands in his warm ones. “My dear child,” he said. “You must not weep. These pagans do not understand sympathy the way that we do. The only language that they speak is strength. In order to survive, you must be strong.”

Blaeja looked at him despairingly. “Brother, what makes you think that I stand any chance at all of surviving? They mean to kill me.”

His grip on her hands tightened. “Have you no faith in yourself at all, princess? You are clever, and strong, and braver than you think. If there is anyone among our people who stands a chance of surviving the Northmen, it is you. As to their intentions…” he paused. “I do not think that they wish you dead. If you keep your wits about you, God will see you through this.” He looked at her earnestly.

Blaeja looked away. “Is this why you taught me the Viking language?” she asked softly. “Did you know that this was going to happen to me?”

He sighed, and Blaeja noticed how heavy his face looked. He had dark circles under his eyes – when had he last slept? “I saw the possibility, princess, I admit. But I had hoped that it would be otherwise.” His grip tightened again. “I will be praying for you every day, my dear. Remember that.”

She half smiled at him. “And I will be praying for you.”

He smiled in return, and released her hands. Blaeja leaned down to pick up her bag. “Where is my father?” she asked.

Brother Ambrose winced. “He is… well, he is in his chambers. He did not care to see Ivar again. He did not come to wish you farewell?”

Blaeja’s features hardened. “Of course he didn’t. You know what he thinks of me. I don’t know why I expected otherwise.” She gave a bitter laugh. “He sold me off like a milk cow to pay for a temporary peace. He gave his own daughter to those pagans. He knows full well what they’ll do to me. And he can’t even bring himself to say goodbye to me!

“But what does he care? I saw what he did to my mother. I know what he’s willing to do to his own family just to save his own skin.” Bile boiled in her throat. “The mighty Aelle, afraid of a cripple. My child-brother has more courage than him!” With him as king, her sacrifice would be for nothing. He would bring Northumbria to ruin. Her beloved country. How she hated him!

Brother Ambrose looked down. “Blaeja…”

But she did not want to hear it. “Let’s go,” she snapped. And she walked towards the entrance to her beloved city. Ecgberht and Ambrose scrambled to follow her. 

The guards, seeing her, moved to open the heavy wooden gate, and Blaeja took a deep breath. Neither of the guards met her eyes. No one wanted to look into the face of a ghost. 

Could ghosts cry? No more tears. No more tears. Don’t cry now…

The gate swung open.

They were waiting for her. All four of them. Or was it just one of them? They seemed almost a single, united entity. She knew that they had a fifth brother, but she had not yet met him. 

The dark-haired one – Ubbe, she remembered – was riding double with the crippled boy, Ivar. She had seen the brothers only once before, and had learned that Ivar was a cripple only afterwards (he had been sitting when she had met him) but had seen them again many times in her bloody, sweat-drenched nightmares. Their faces were seared into her memory, haunting her like wraiths. 

She shivered. Five guards stood outside the gate, between the city and the northmen, looking tense. The bishop stood behind them, nervously wringing his hands.

All eyes turned to her.

Blaeja looked at them all: the dark-haired Ubbe, his face impassive, with the crippled Ivar, whose gaze sent a chill down her spine. The eager, cruel light in those eyes… She knew that he had driven the bargain with Aelle. The bargain where he had tricked her father into giving him a city, using his trick with the ox hide. The bargain for her.

Hvitserk, the brother who had said the least when she had met him last, who looked almost bored as he looked her up and down… 

And the blond one, Sigurd. He seemed different from the others – emotion swirling in his eyes, contemplative somehow. Was that sadness she saw as he turned his gaze to her? Why would that be there? 

The bishop made the sign of the cross over her, and muttered some prayer. She hardly noticed, but bowed her head and crossed herself all the same. Something flickered across Ivar’s face as she did – she noticed it because she was not going to take her eyes off of him. Contempt? Yes. He was the most dangerous. Smoldering like a fire.

Silence. Agony…

“Your father kept his word.” That was Sigurd.

She looked at him sadly. “No,” she said. “I kept his word.”

Ubbe’s head tilted. Sigurd’s eyes narrowed with some emotion; what was it? Puzzlement? Why couldn’t she read him? Ivar snorted.

Hvitserk held out the reins of the spare horse to her. A young white mare, who looked rather skittish, but steady enough. “This will be your horse. Are you ready?”

No, never. I told their father that I’d die first! How Ragnar must be laughing at her now, wherever in the afterlife he was. But there was nowhere for her to go but forward. “Yes,” she said.

She swung into the saddle. Sigurd nudged his horse up on her right side and Hvitserk did the same on her left. They were studying her, she could feel it. She set her jaw. Don’t look back, don’t look back…

The brothers nudged their horses forward.

“Blaeja! No! Let me go!” It was Ecgberht. He sounded so desperate. Someone must have held him back. Don’t look back, don’t look back…

She nudged her horse forward. Did not look back.


	4. Intentions

One hour later…

With each step of her horse, Blaeja was growing more and more afraid. She was starting to feel sick, and she closed her eyes against a swirl of nausea. When she opened them, Sigurd was looking at her strangely. With a certain… intensity. Blaeja looked away, discomfited.

They were coming to the crest of a hill, and Blaeja looked over her shoulder. Behind her, the Northumbrian countryside stretched out like a verdant tapestry towards the horizon, gently lit by the blushing dawn. She could see her city, and faintly make out her father’s house, and the church, whose steeple gleamed brightly in the morning sun. Beyond, the wooded green hills rolled eternally towards the pale sky, which was the color of one of the delicate shells of the ocean. It took Blaeja’s breath away, for it seemed that the country was singing to her. Singing a song of beauty. Singing in the only way it knew how.

Singing her death song.

Blaeja pulled her horse up. Beside her, Sigurd and Hvitserk did the same, startled, and after a moment, Ubbe joined them. 

“What are you doing?” he asked as he turned his horse around, a slight frown on his face.

Blaeja didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she swung out of the saddle onto the ground, turning away from the brothers to face the beauty of Northumbria. She stood stock-still for a moment, gathering her courage. 

Behind her, she heard the thump of several pairs of feet on the ground, and three of the brothers entered her field of vision. Before they could speak, Blaeja found her own voice.

“If I…” she swallowed. “If I am to die, I would prefer to die right now, where I can still see my city and my country before me.” She paused, closing her eyes, then continued. “Please, be kind and do it now.” 

Despite her best efforts to keep from crying, Blaeja’s vision blurred, and she felt a tear slide down her cheek. 

At least this was a good way to die. She waited, keeping her eyes straight ahead.

And then she heard laughter.

Ivar.

His horse walked into her field of vision, with its rider lounging casually over its neck. And he was laughing. Laughing as though Blaeja had just given him a delicious present.

He smiled, and said, “Are you afraid of us, girl?” He said it like it was the most delightful thing in the world.

“Only a fool wouldn’t be,” Blaeja replied. “Why are you toying with me like this?” Please, just end this already…

Ivar laughed again, but before he could say anything, Sigurd suddenly stepped in front of her. “We don’t want you dead, princess,” he said. 

“Don’t we?” That was Ivar. His smile was being replaced by neutrality. “As I recall, brother, she was given to me, not to you. She is my slave. I get to decide what to do with her.”

Sigurd spun around. “She is not a slave,” he said. “And as I recall, you are not superior to the rest of us, boneless.”

For some reason, Ivar suddenly smiled. “Am I not?” he whispered quietly, and the silent air boiled with potential violence.

Then Ubbe was there. He stepped in front of Sigurd, saying “That’s enough. Both of you need to stop behaving like children.” He turned to his blond brother. “Sigurd, get back on your horse. And Ivar, you know that we do not mean to kill the princess. So stop tormenting her.”

Ivar scowled. “We only agreed that we didn’t mean to kill her right away.” He leaned forward, staring at Blaeja with a strange hunger in his eyes. “And I mean to make her pay for what Aelle did to our father. I want her to suffer, and make Aelle feel the same pain that we felt when he killed Ragnar like a coward.” There was no hint of a smile on his face now.

And Blaeja burst out laughing. 

Sigurd swung around to stare at her as though she had lost her wits. Truth be told, all of the brothers did. Blaeja didn’t care. She put all of the scorn she felt toward these brothers into her laugh, and stared straight at Ivar all the while.

“What is so funny?” he asked quietly, danger smoldering in his eyes.

Blaeja took a breath. “Oh, all of the things that I’ve heard about you never gave me any reason to doubt your intelligence. But I can see now that you are fools of the first order!” She giggled darkly. “It’s almost comical, you thinking that Aelle actually cares about what happens to me, or that he will feel pain if you kill me.” 

Suddenly, Blaeja felt less like laughing, and her voice came out cold and hard. “Let me tell you something. My father has hated me since the day I was born. If you kill me, he is more like to thank you than anything. You saw for yourselves how he treats me; I am like a slave to him. If you want to make my father feel pain, you are going to have to rethink your strategy, for I can tell you right now that no one stands to profit from my death more than him.” Her voice caught on the last sentence, but she got it out. 

All of the brothers stared. Ivar tilted his head.

Then Sigurd took a pace forward, towards her, coming so close that Blaeja felt the heat of his breath on her cheeks. His expression seemed almost troubled. She froze, not daring to move as he lifted his hand towards her face. He gently tilted her chin up and touched his thumb to the line of the cut on her lip, as though he did not believe it was real. His fingers were warm, his touch was as light as a bird’s feather, and for some reason that she could not name, Blaeja shivered.

That brought a slow smile to his face, and like some silly girl, Blaeja felt her own face heat up. She took a pace back and looked away. 

“We are not going to kill you, Aellesdottir,” he said. 

“Well, not yet, anyways. We’ll see about later. Now get back on your horse.” and with an unpleasant smile, Ivar wheeled his horse about. “Ubbe!” he said. The calm-faced brother rolled his eyes and swung up behind his brother. 

Hvitserk paused a moment. “Be careful, little princess. He doesn’t like to be laughed at.” He cleared his throat, and moved to his own mount.

“Come on,” he called. “We’ve wasted enough time here.”

Sigurd snorted. “You can’t ever sit still, can you, brother?” he teased. 

The two moved back to their horses, and Blaeja, with a last look at the scene before her, followed.


	5. Birdsong

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter takes place several hours after Chapter 4, after Blaeja arrives in the Viking's camp.

They had given Blaeja her own tent. It was small, true, but at least she wasn’t being forced to share a tent – or a bed – with any of the Vikings, and she would take privacy over luxury any day. 

There were two guards at the entrance, which was only slightly disconcerting to Blaeja, as there had always been armed men separating her from the world. However, they were never solely intended to keep her confined, as these were. And one of the guards was a woman! This was mildly reassuring, but it also served as a reminder to Blaeja of the kind of strength and toughness that the Viking women had, and how far from that she fell. 

Needless to say, as she had approached the Viking camp, the occupants had shamelessly stared at her. Blaeja had wanted to pull the cowl of her cloak over her head and hunch her shoulders, but she had forced herself to weather the hostile gazes and keep her head high. 

It had seemed as though every resident of the camp had emerged just to gape at Blaeja, mostly in silence. However, there had been some who had openly leered at her, and one man had shouted something disgusting, which had made Blaeja jerk her head away as though he had slapped her. Of course, the four brothers had done nothing about it, though it had made Sigurd narrow his eyes, and Ubbe had sighed.

Back in her father’s city, such a thing would never have been tolerated. Indeed, Aelle likely would have had the man beaten unconscious if he had witnessed it. 

But now there was no one willing to stand up for her. It was yet another sobering reminder that Blaeja now must depend on herself, especially given that her life and dignity seemed to be balanced on a knife’s edge.

Blaeja turned and placed her bag on the bed, pulling out the dresses that Eleanor had carefully packed, but her hand touched something odd. Something hard. Blaeja drew it out, and smiled.

It was a book, but she could tell that it wasn’t just any book. She opened it carefully, and saw that it was written in two languages: Latin and her own, the original Latin on the one side, and the translation to her own language on the other. She was proficient in reading Latin, which was another language that Brother Ambrose had been teaching her. 

Blaeja tried reading the first line, and stopped, feeling almost overwhelmed with emotion. It was a detailed account of the life of Julius Caesar! How long had it taken Brother Ambrose to record, copy, and translate this entire work? 

It must have been Ambrose who had slipped the hand-sewn book into her bag. Blaeja caressed it gently, knowing the care, thought, and love that her friend had put into this gift. Truly, Blaeja was touched. She had always been fascinated by the Roman consuls of old, and here Brother Ambrose had compiled so many different accounts of Caesar for her to read, while giving her a chance to practice her Latin. 

Blaeja pressed the gift against her chest, holding it like a talisman against the danger and evil which now surrounded her. 

There was a small table and a chair in the corner, and Blaeja sat down. Immediately, the story of Caesar pulled her in, and she began to read, her dresses forgotten in a crumpled heap on the bed. 

 

Blaeja woke with a start. She’d fallen asleep at the table, with her head pillowed on her arm. The candle she’d lit had burned low.

For a moment, Blaeja was unsure what had woken her. It was full dark outside, and the weather had turned uncomfortably cold. Then she realized what had changed: it was the wind.

It was singing. 

The wind had picked up, swirling softly through the camp, and it was singing. Its melodious voice ebbed and flowed, like a song half-remembered from a dream, setting the entrance of Blaeja’s tent flapping. Then it slid softly through the tent, and fluttered against her dress, delving gently beneath it to set its chill fingers on her body, making the hairs on her arms rise. Blaeja shivered, but with something more than cold. 

It was… something else. It was the music.

The music was calling to her.

And Blaeja rose, and walked to the entrance of her tent. She was unsure of what she was doing, but her feet had purpose. 

The guards stepped forward to bar her way, and the woman asked her, “Where are you going?”

Blaeja had a response ready. “I am going to find some food. I have not eaten yet today.”

The two exchanged a glance. The man shrugged. “Very well.”

And Blaeja walked away. 

The next thing she realized, she was climbing the hill outside of the camp. The walk through the camp was something of a blur, and she only vaguely remembered how she had exited camp of the Vikings without being seen. But it was late, and that likely had something to do with it. 

Her intention was not to run away. After all, she had nowhere to go. Blaeja was unsure of what had driven her to this hill, only the knowledge that she had wanted to hear the wind of Northumbria, singing to her. 

Below her, the moonlight had touched the trees and turned them to silver, with the stars standing sentinel overhead, glittering like diamonds.   
It was a different world. 

Gently, the wind nudged her, snapping her cloak and whipping tendrils of hair about her face. Heedless of the cold, Blaeja removed the cloak from her shoulders, and walked a few paces down the hill to hang it from the branches of a tree. She’d left her shoes in her tent, and the frosty grass was cold on her feet. 

The note of the wind changed, becoming something more melodic, lower, soothing. Softly, softly, Blaeja began to sing, adding her voice to Northumbria’s song.

A lullaby, gentle, sad. She had used to sing it to her brother when the night had seemed so very vast, and there was no mother to comfort him anymore. 

It had been a long while since Blaeja had sung for herself. Her mother had always encouraged her, had called her “little songbird.” But lately, the only songs she had sung had been hymns, in church. And those were not for herself. The melody of her life had flown away as the dark had closed in around her. There was so little happiness anymore. So few reasons to sing.

But there, on the hilltop, with her whole world bathed in silver, and the wind bringing the melodies back to her mind, Blaeja sang. 

And soon the lullaby became something else, and it was only when Blaeja was halfway through that she realized what it was. 

A funeral song. A song to mourn the waste of a life.

A song filled with pain, with sadness. A song that rang with its feeling. And Blaeja sang, crying with the pain of that beautiful melody.

And when it ended she sang it again. And again.

Finally, gasping, Blaeja stopped. The world stared back, unmoved. Pale, remote, and beautiful.

She turned her gaze skyward, where the stars were glimmering like cold, distant angels, uncaring and unfeeling. How had they allowed this to happen to her?!  
She threw back her head. “Show me you’re there! Tell me you haven’t abandoned me!” Blaeja screamed. 

There was no response. Nothing to indicate that her abandonment was untrue.

And then, Blaeja broke down, and cried. Really, truly cried, her body shaking with sobs, tears running from her pale eyes. Blaeja cried for the life that she had lost, for the life that had never truly belonged to her. 

The life that she had been taken from her the moment she had been born a princess. 

The wind curved around her, still gently singing, seemingly the only entity who cared about her pain. 

Slowly, it dried the tears running down her pale face. It gave back the breath that the sobbing had stolen from her chest. It cooled her heated cheeks, pressing against her sadness with its gentle, enduring hand. 

And finally, it dried her tears completely, cooling the heated emotions that had been running wild through her fragile body. It soothed the aching wounds of a betrayed princess, of a motherless daughter, of a girl who had been forced to become a woman far, far too soon. It took her shivering sorrow into its soft, cold hands, cradling her aching soul in the way that her mother had comforted her when the night had closed in around them. And then she was just a girl, standing on a hilltop, empty except for the music of loneliness echoing through and around her. 

Gently, the wind sang a higher verse, coaxing, patient. And Blaeja sang a response. A ballad, this time. The story of a little fisherman’s daughter, which her mother had taught to her before she could even begin to comprehend what the words meant.

She stayed there through the whole night, singing to the wind, and letting it sing back to her. Letting it empty her, comfort her, heedless of the fact that her fingers and feet had gone numb, that her hair had been blown out of its plaits to swirl around her shoulders.

She didn’t truly notice that the sun had come up, and that the birds had joined her song. Didn’t notice when the camp below her began to add its own music to the world. 

But she did hear the feet on the grass behind her.

Blaeja did not care. 

She kept singing, finishing her song, the words of which were a mystery to her. Perhaps it was the dawn, singing through her.

And when he spoke, she still did not care.

“Gods! How long have you been standing here?”

It was one of the brothers. The matter of which one also did not concern her.

“I have always been standing here.” She had no idea what that meant, but the words flowed out regardless. 

A hand touched her arm. Warm. Too warm. “You are frozen. Are you trying to kill yourself?!”

Blaeja heard herself laugh. “My life does not belong to myself, Ragnarsson. What right have I to throw it away?”

There was a baffled silence, which amused her. She opened her mouth to say more. 

Suddenly, the world suddenly tipped, and the words she would have said died in her mouth as she collapsed.

The last thing she remembered was the feeling of a warm pair of hands catching her before she could fall.


	6. Understandings

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place an hour after Chapter Five.

Blaeja awoke slowly, feeling as though her mind was moving through thick mud. Her hands and feet were throbbing slightly, and she felt chilled, though she seemed to have been wrapped in several furs. She blinked slowly, looking around, and then started.

She was lying in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar tent, and that sent a current of fear through her body. But she recognized the person sitting in front of her, watching her with an unreadable expression, and the sight of him was what made her truly afraid.

It was Sigurd, the blond brother.

Why was she in his tent?

She must have made some sound of fright, for he jumped up, and made a soothing gesture with his hands. 

“Shh,” he said. “You don’t need to be afraid of me.” His clipped, musical accent was very apparent when he spoke. 

“No?” Blaeja said. “What am I doing here then?” She tried to hide the fact that she was trembling.

Something like chagrin flickered over his features. “I found you standing on a hill, frozen practically to the bone, and swaying on your feet with fatigue. Your own tent was cold as a tomb, and that is why I brought you here. Should I not have?”

Blaeja felt slightly discomfited.

He continued. “What in the names of the gods were you doing?”

Blaeja looked up angrily. “Why do you care? What value have I to you? Do you want to keep me alive to be your little concubine? Or would you prefer to watch your   
brother torture me for fun?”

She had made him angry, she could tell. The set of his mouth became hard, and his eyes suddenly blazed. “That isn’t why I want to keep you alive!” he spat at her. “But if you are so interested in throwing your life away, perhaps I should spare myself the effort!”

“I wasn’t trying to kill myself!” Blaeja said, sitting up to look at him. “And you haven’t given me cause to think that you want to keep me for any kind reason! Your brother – he told me that he wanted to see me suffer!”

“It was Ivar who said that!” he yelled. “You judge me based on my brother? What do you know about us?” His voice was bitter. “You haven’t even thought to notice that I am not Ivar. I am not my parents, or my brothers. But you are too prejudiced to notice.”

Blaeja looked away, not wanting to hear these words, the words that appealed to her humanity. The words that were making it hard to think of him as an enemy. But he continued, his voice filled with so much intensity. 

“I am the only one of my brothers who doesn’t think that you should be punished for Aelle’s crimes. Why can’t you recognize that? You insist on treating us all the same, but we are not.”

Blaeja closed her eyes, for what he had said… she understood it. She understood it in the way she understood music. She had lived her entire life trying to escape the shadow of her father’s legacy.

“I…” she started. Then paused. “I am sorry. I too know about wanting to escape the shadow of my family.” Blaeja looked down at her hands, which were rather pink from the cold. 

There was silence for a moment.

“Your father?” he asked quietly.

Blaeja nodded. “You think that Aelle is bad, but you don’t know the half of it. He… he does not understand what it truly means to be a Christian.”

She looked up at him then. His brow was furrowed, but his anger seemed to have abated. She continued, “What he did to my mother… it was beyond cruelty. The woman who gave him her love, her children, her life; he tossed her aside like a broken sandal.”

“She is dead?”

Blaeja nodded. “Yes, she is dead.”

Sigurd looked away for a moment. “My mother is dead too. But, she was not truly a mother to me; she never wanted me. The only one of us that she ever loved was Ivar. So in a way, I grew up an orphan.”

Blaeja narrowed her eyes in confusion. “Why are you telling me this?”

He looked away. “I don’t know.” He tightened his lips. “Do you still love your father?”

“No.” The word was out before Blaeja had even considered the question. She felt disgusted with her lack of loyalty. How could she say such a thing?! He was her father!

Sigurd was smiling again, but colder this time. “That is good,” he said. “For we are going to kill him.”

Blaeja swallowed. “And my brother?” she whispered.

There was no pity in his gaze, and Blaeja felt a cold hand wrap around her heart. “I do not know, Aellesdottir,” he said.

But Blaeja knew. Her heart filled now with dread. “Please don’t hurt my brother. He’s only a boy! He’s not a threat to you, and he did nothing wrong!

“I can understand the grievance you have with my father. The things he has done are unpardonable. But to kill a little boy simply because of who his father is… that is wrong. Have you no pity at all?!”

He was watching her impassively, but Blaeja thought that she saw signs of discomfort in his eyes. 

“It may not be up to me, Aellesdottir,” he said quietly. “Ivar will wish to see him dead, I can tell you that with certainty. But…” he sighed. “I will do my best to keep him alive, provided he offers us no resistance. Does that satisfy you?”

Blaeja rose to her feet, pushing the furs of his bed aside. “I want your word on it,” she said, trying not to show how nervous she was at being so close to him. She needed this concession, or she would never forgive herself.

Something flickered in his eyes, and he reached out, took her chin in his hand. Blaeja went completely still, her heart pounding wildly. “I swear,” he said. “Are you satisfied now?”

Blaeja could not find her voice. His eyes were very green, like a shallow sea, and Blaeja somehow could not look away. But one of them… She looked closer. Something else was there.

A snake. There, in his right eye, the image of a serpent.

Scarcely daring to breathe, Blaeja reached out and touched a forefinger to his cheek, just below his strange eye. He did not move when she touched him, but stared straight back. His gaze was very direct, very warm, and a strange rush of heat swept through her. 

Terrified, Blaeja stepped back, trying not to look at him.

“Are you afraid of me?” he asked quietly. 

Blaeja managed a small shake of her head, trying not to reveal how red in the face she was. Finally, she found her voice. “I am satisfied,” she said. “But I am not sure whether you will ask me for some kind of recompense.” 

To her surprise, he let out a small laugh. “Not yet,” he said. “It amuses me enough to see you blush like that.”

Blaeja turned away, embarrassed, and he laughed again. 

“Just so long as you keep your promise, Ragnarsson,” she told him.

“Sigurd.”

She turned around. “What?”

There was still a hint of a smile on his face. “My name is Sigurd.”

She stared at him for a moment, feeling very uncertain. “Very well, Sigurd,” she eventually said. But she could not bring herself to look in his strange eyes for very long, and looked down at her feet. For a moment, there was silence.

Suddenly, her head started to swim, and she sat down heavily on the bed. “Oh God,” she heard herself say.

“When did you last eat?” Sigurd’s voice said, seemingly from a greater distance than it should have come from.

Blaeja couldn’t remember. “The day before yesterday?” she replied, uncertainly.

She saw him shake his head, and then he was pressing a cold plate into her hand. “Eat,” he said. 

Blaeja peered at it doubtfully. It was some kind of meat – a bird, it looked like. She shook her head, feeling her stomach turn. 

Sigurd sighed, and sat down beside her. “You have to eat, Blaeja.”

She turned and looked at him then, stunned. A feeling suddenly rose in her throat, making it hard to get out the words.

“That’s the first time anyone here has called me by my name,” she whispered. Why should that make her feel so raw?

Sigurd smiled. “Blaeja,” he said, slowly, seeming to savor the word. “Blaeja. You need to eat.” He held out the plate again.

Tentatively, Blaeja took a piece of meat, and bit into it. She tried not to gag as she chewed and swallowed. And then she made herself take another bite, chewed, swallowed.

She made herself finish the entire plate, bite by bite, and slowly, she began to feel better. As she finished the last bite, she stared at his elbow, too shy to glance at his face.

“Are your brothers angry with me for leaving?” she asked.

He exhaled slowly. “I did not tell them.”

Blaeja looked up in confusion. “But… how did you know that I was gone, while they did not?”

He paused a moment. “Your guards. When it was the end of their shift, very late last night, they came to see if you were with me. I told them not to tell my brothers that you were missing, and I went looking for you myself.”

Blaeja was confused. “Why didn’t you tell them?”

He looked at her seriously. “Because Ivar would have killed you for it. And my other brothers would not have cared.”

Blaeja shivered. “It was not my intention to run away, you know. I just… wanted to hear the wind.”

“Do you really think that would matter to Ivar?” he asked.

There was silence for a moment.

Blaeja looked away. Her fatigue was catching up to her, and her head felt as though it had been stuffed with cotton. Without meaning to, she yawned.

Sigurd stood, and reached for his axe, sliding it through his belt. “You should sleep, princess. I will not return for some time, and no one will bother you here.”

Blaeja had lost count of the number of times that she had blushed during this hour. “I can’t sleep in your bed,” she said quietly, embarrassed.

He laughed. “What are you afraid of, Blaeja?” He was teasing her, she was sure of it, and she couldn’t meet his gaze.

“I…” she floundered. A Christian woman should not even be having this conversation, and she felt ashamed.

He was still laughing. “I am leaving anyways, princess. You have nothing to fear.” He lifted his chin at the bed. “Sleep.”

And then, with a small nod to her, he turned and left, leaving Blaeja alone. She looked around, totally at a loss. What on earth should she make of this strange man? He seemed to have a talent for making her nervous, that was certain. She tried to get herself to stand, to leave, not sure whether it was a good idea to stay. But the bed was very soft, and she was so very tired, that the idea of trying to find her own tent again was much too daunting. 

So Blaeja gave up the fight, and lay back down, pulling the thick furs around herself.

The last thing she was aware of before the arms of sleep pulled her under was the fact that the furs beneath her head smelled... different. 

They smelled like him.


	7. The Line Between

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I'm posting this at 2 a.m., but it was very important to me to get this encounter right, and so it took an unexpected amount of time to write. And my mind works better after midnight.  
> Takes place several hours after Chapter 6.

A sound.

Blaeja started awake, unsure for a moment of where she was.

Then she remembered.

And at the same time, she realized what had awoken her.

He was there.

It was starting to get dark outside – how long had she slept? She put a hand to her forehead, still disoriented from sleep. Sigurd was standing a few feet away, watching her, arms crossed, impassive. 

Blaeja sat up. “How long have I been sleeping?” she asked him.

He smirked. “Nearly all day. You were very tired.”

She still couldn’t hold his gaze for very long. “I should go,” she said, and threw the furs aside. But he stopped her by holding out his hand. She paused, one foot on the ground, the other hovering a few inches away.

“Ivar wants to speak with you, Blaeja,” he said. A contemptuous look entered his eyes. “Of course, he cannot come to you himself.”

A prickle of nervousness ran down Blaeja’s spine. “Why?” she asked. “Does he know about what I did last night?”

Sigurd shook his head. “I don’t think so. Will you come?”

Blaeja tightened her lips. “It seems that I have no choice.” 

She slipped out of the bed, and tried to straighten her rumpled dress. She cast about for her shoes, and then slid them onto her feet. 

“Where is your cloak?” Sigurd asked.

Blaeja thought for a moment. “I think that it is still on the top of the hill.” Saying that made Blaeja feel utterly ridiculous. She self-consciously pushed a piece of hair behind her ear, realizing how disheveled it was. She tried to smooth it down, realized that that was a lost cause, and sighed in defeat. 

“Can we go then?” she asked. Sigurd made an after-you gesture.

 

The other three were waiting for them, under a large canvas shelter, sitting around a table. Someone had built a fire a few feet away, and Blaeja could hear its popping and crackling. 

She was not sure what the brothers would do if she tried to take a seat, so even as Sigurd sprawled in one of the chairs, she remained standing, twisting her fingers around each other. 

Her eyes went first to Ivar, whose chair was the closest to Blaeja, and who was toying with the point of a small knife in his hand. He was smiling again, the same smile that always seemed to make her skin crawl. She nervously waited for him to speak, hoping that Sigurd had been right and that Ivar did not know where she had been the night before. Finally, after a silence that seemed to stretch for a year, he spoke.

“So, little princess,” he said, his voice teasing. “Where have you been?” He looked her up and down. “And why do you look so disheveled?” 

Blaeja’s heart dropped into her stomach. 

She couldn’t find her voice. “I…” she said, casting about frantically. What could she tell him? What would he believe?

“She was with me,” Sigurd suddenly said. Everyone turned to look at him, stretched out casually in his chair. And for a moment, no one spoke.

Then Ivar leaned forward, laying the knife on the table, a steely, angry look coming into his eyes. “And who gave you permission to bed my slave?” he said.

“What?!” the word burst from Blaeja’s mouth. Her fear had suddenly been replaced with anger, and she felt the blood rise to her face. “How dare you!” That was what Ivar thought she had been doing with Sigurd?!

Slowly, dangerously, Ivar turned to face her. “The next time you question me like that, I will cut off one of your fingers,” he said, his voice low, and threatening. “Do you understand?”

Blaeja took a pace forward, heedless of his threat in her indignation. “I was not sleeping with him,” she said, hearing the anger in her voice.

“And I don’t need your permission to bed anyone, boneless,” Sigurd said angrily.

Ubbe spoke up: “Sigurd is right, brother. The princess is not your slave. She belongs to all of us.” 

Hvitserk, who was sitting furthest from Blaeja, suddenly spoke. “And if Sigurd already got to taste her, it seems only fair that the rest of us get to as well,” And he smirked at Blaeja, openly looking her up and down.

For a moment, Blaeja struggled with the urge to reach over the table and slap him across the face. She heard herself draw in a breath through her teeth.

But suddenly, Ivar had her by the wrist, squeezing painfully. Blaeja tried to jerk away, but he somehow increased the pressure, and she gasped in pain.

“Don’t even think about it,” he hissed.

Sigurd was on his feet again. “Let her go,” he said, his hand moving towards his axe.

To Blaeja’s astonishment, Ivar did. She jerked away, rubbing her wrist. She could already see the red marks that his fingers had left, and knew that she would have a very good bruise there soon.

Slowly, Sigurd sat back down, still glaring at Ivar. There was a brief silence.

Then Blaeja found her voice, trying to divert the conversation from the volatile topic that it was on. “Why am I here?” she asked quietly, ignoring the throbbing that Ivar's fingers had caused in her left wrist.

Ivar tilted his head, arrogantly. “Because I wanted to speak to you.”

Blaeja almost smiled. “That is not what I meant, and you know it.”

His expression was unreadable. There was a pause.

“No,” Blaeja said, suddenly understanding, suddenly knowing what she had to do. “What am I thinking? I can answer that question myself.” She stared directly at Ivar, making no attempt to hide her wrist beneath her sleeve.

“I was supposed to be the insurance, wasn’t I?” her voice came out cold and challenging. “Your insurance against Aelle. You wanted me so that you could restrict his choices, eliminate the possibility of an attack from him. If he wanted to move against you, he would have to sacrifice his own daughter. By taking me, you were hoping to gain the luxury of being able to come at Aelle at a time and place of your choosing, instead of his. It was actually quite a sensible thing to do.” Ivar’s eyes narrowed a fraction, but she continued. “Of course, that was before I revealed to you the fact that Aelle would be happy to see me dead, and that your clever purchase was worthless for the purpose you had in mind. I suppose that was a very stupid mistake on my part, for it has eliminated a great part of my value to you. So, I am assuming that is why I am here speaking to you now: you are no more sure of what to do with me than I am. I suppose that that’s almost comical, really.” She took a breath. “Am I getting this right?” she added, sarcastically.

The brothers just stared.

“I suppose that now, since I can insure you against nothing, you think that you have no use for me, besides the ways you can use me for your amusement.” Her voice became hard and cold on the last part of that sentence, but Blaeja did not care. If she wanted to survive, this was the game she had to play, and if she showed any sign of fear or uncertainty, she knew that the game would be over. Ivar would pounce, and then she would be nothing more than the mouse that he played with before eating. 

The trick was to make herself look less like a mouse, and more like a hawk.

The trick was to speak the language of strength.

Blaeja leaned forward, placing her palms on the table, bringing herself face to face with Ivar. She forced herself to look straight into his eyes without flinching, though every instinct screamed at her to flee, to retreat, in the face of his cold gaze.

“Shall I tell you how I can be of use to you?” she asked quietly, allowing a hint of a smile to touch her lips.

Ivar raised his eyebrows. “By all means,” he replied.

Blaeja desperately tried to marshal her thoughts, praying that she had read these men correctly, and that the appeal that she was preparing would be the right one. 

She knew, even though she had not known him long, that Ivar had a cunning instinct that was an order of magnitude greater than the cunning that she herself possessed. The other brothers were intelligent, Blaeja knew, but Ivar was something else altogether. One had only to look at what he had accomplished to understand this fact: he, a cripple, was in command of one of the largest fighting forces the world had ever seen. In a world where physical strength was of the utmost importance, Ivar, a cripple who was incapable even of walking, had managed to take more power than anyone. 

Blaeja knew that she had next to no chance of outwitting him. 

But she did have one advantage: she was on familiar ground. After all, she had played this same game with her father countless times, ever since she had been a child. In order to stay alive, she had had to become a master of convincing Aelle that she was of value to him. 

And here, Blaeja did not have to outwit Ivar. She merely had to do the same thing that she had done with her father, and convince him that she was of value. And, in a sudden flash of insight not a minute ago, she had understood exactly how she could accomplish that.

Blaeja steeled herself, and began to speak.

“No one expects your peace with Aelle to hold; not you, not me, and certainly not him. We all know that you will attack him at some point – don’t try to deny it, because I can see the truth of it in your eyes.” She paused, took a breath, and prepared to throw the dice.

“You took me away from my father in order to use me against him. But did you ever consider the fact that I might want to help you?”

Silence.

“You expect us to believe that you’d work against your own father?” Hvitserk asked her, his voice full of skepticism.

Blaeja turned and looked at him. “The father who sold me off like a broodmare?” she said. “The father whom I hold responsible for my mother’s death? The father who has treated me like a slave my entire life, and holds me in no higher regard than one?”

Blaeja put all of the contempt, anger, and bitterness that her father had created in her into her next sentence. “He is not my father.” 

Hvitserk was looking at her with something of an incredulous look on his face, but then nodded in acknowledgement.

For some reason, Blaeja’s gaze then flicked to Sigurd, who was being strangely quiet, to see him watching her with something like sadness on his face. Disoriented, Blaeja looked away.

“And how do you expect that you can help us?” Ivar asked, eyes narrowed, calculating.

“How many men does Aelle have in his army?” Blaeja questioned. “Who are his allies? What will make them come to his aid?” Ivar opened his mouth, but Blaeja didn’t give him a chance to speak. “What kind of strategies does Aelle use? How does he think? What kind of man is he?” She paused, looking at each one of them in turn. “You don’t know the answers to any of these, do you? You know nothing about Aelle.”

Blaeja put as much emphasis into her voice as she could. “But I do.” 

She had their interest now, Blaeja saw. Ivar leaned forward.

“I am willing to give you everything,” she continued. “I am offering you the chance to gain an enormous advantage over Aelle. Will you take it?”

Ubbe spoke up. “You want something in return, though, don’t you?”

Blaeja smiled. “Precisely. Are you willing to hear me out?”

Ivar opened his hands in a kind of invitation. 

Blaeja prayed that this would work. She was walking a very delicate line between ensuring her safety and her brother’s, and asking too much for the brothers to be able to accept. She took a deep breath. “In exchange for all of the knowledge I have of my father, I want three things.” 

“Three?” Ubbe said, with a snort. 

“Yes,” Blaeja said, determined not to be cowed by him. She turned back to Ivar and continued.

“The first is your guarantee that you will spare my brother, Ecgberht.” She saw Sigurd’s head tilt up when she said it, but did not turn to look at him. “He is a boy, and is not a threat to you. It will cost you nothing to let him live; he is pliable, not vengeful.”

Ivar glanced at his brothers. None of them made a move to speak against her request, so Ivar gave her a grudging nod. 

“Second,” she said, “I want my freedom.” 

Ivar’s brows drew together, but Blaeja continued. “I know that in your world, it is unlawful to force a woman to marry or bed a man that she does not want, or to force her into slavery, or to kill her out of hand. Extend these rights to me; the rights that a free woman would have.”

“And why would we do that?” Hvitserk asked, eyebrows raised mockingly.

“Because if you want to know how to beat Aelle, you are going to have to,” Blaeja said, trying not to let her hands shake.

Ivar spoke up again. “You know, we do have other means to find out what we want to know from you,” he said, smiling quietly. “There really is no need to bargain with you in this way.”

Blaeja couldn’t let them see just how much that possibility scared her. She forced a laugh. “Why go to all of the trouble of torturing me to get information that might not even be correct or complete when I am offering it to you freely? After all, you don’t know what you don’t know. Why take that chance?” She paused for a moment.  
“And the price I am setting is not high.”

Ivar was watching her with a strange gleam in his eyes. “You are much better with words than I gave you credit for, little Aellesdottir,” he said. “But I can see the fear in your eyes.”

Blaeja swallowed. “Will you hear my third condition or not?” she whispered, trying desperately to get a handle on her face, to make her expression a mask.

There was a pause.

“Go ahead then,” Ivar said finally.

And Blaeja felt herself smile. “Third,” she said, “If you capture my father, I want to be there when you kill him.”

Ivar drew back. Sigurd gave a small inhale, leaning forward. The other two exchanged a glance.

“You will not force my brother to watch,” she said. “But I will, and gladly.”

Then one of the brothers, Ubbe, started to chuckle, shaking his head. And as Hvitserk joined him, that chuckle became a roar of laughter. Soon, all four of them were laughing, much to Blaeja’s confusion.

“I fail to see what is so amusing,” she said. 

“Oh,” Ubbe said. “Let’s give her what she wants. This is too rich. If nothing else, it should be interesting to see if she can stand to witness what we do to her father when we kill him.”

Ivar and Hvitserk both snorted, in amusement. Sigurd was looking her up and down, almost with approval, it seemed. “I agree,” he said, smiling at her. It was not an unpleasant smile. “I would like to give her what she wants.” Was that a double meaning she heard in his comment? What was it? He was infuriatingly difficult for Blaeja to read. “And she could be a great asset,” he continued.

Hvitserk nodded.

And Blaeja turned, once again, to Ivar, her heart pounding faster. Had she done it? Did he think of her as a mouse, desperately trying to save its own life, or a hawk, and a potential ally and equal? He was watching her, and Blaeja told herself not to flinch under his icy stare. For a moment that seemed to last an agonizing lifetime, he did not speak.

Then, he nodded. “Very well,” he said. “You will have what you ask for, provided you give us true, and useful, information.”

Blaeja narrowed her eyes. “Swear it,” she said. “On the names of your pagan gods. Swear that you will abide by the conditions I have set.”

Sigurd spoke up first. “On the names of the gods, it will be as you say.” The hint of a smile still lingered on his mouth.

One after the other, Ubbe and Hvitserk added their voices. “In the name of the gods.” 

And Ivar nodded. “In the name of the gods, Aellesdottir, it will be as you say.”

Blaeja inclined her head to each of them. “Then, in the name of my lord Jesus, I swear to speak true, and to tell all.”

She smiled. “And I swear to give you Aelle.”

The bargain had been struck.


	8. Shadows in the Moonlight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place several hours after Chapter 7.

That night, Blaeja again found herself on the hill. It had been even easier than the night before, as she had used the terms of her agreement with Ivar to have the guards removed from her tent. A free woman would not be locked under guard, she had argued, and Ivar had reluctantly agreed. 

So again, Blaeja found herself on the hill, with the moonlight touching her hair to silver. 

But this time, she did not cry. She just sat down, drew the recovered cloak about herself, and beheld the stars keeping watch over her country, feeling a certain kinship with their cold, lonely watches. 

There was such beauty in distance. 

Blaeja smiled, content in the feeling of swimming in the vast silence of the sleeping world.

Which made it all the more startling when he spoke.

“I thought you would be here.” The voice came from behind her, seemingly out of nowhere, and Blaeja jumped, turning to face the speaker.

It was Sigurd, standing not two body-lengths away, watching her. How in the world had he managed to sneak up behind her so quietly?

“What do you want?” she asked warily, starting to rise to her feet.

“No,” he said, coming to sit beside her. “Don’t get up.” He paused. “Do you ever sleep at night, Blaeja?”

For some reason, that made her smile. “I’m afraid you have the misfortune of playing host to an insomniac, Sigurd.”

He laughed. “You remind me of an owl, you know. Calm, wise, and unable to sleep at night.”

Blaeja snorted. “Everyone seems to think that I am like to sprout feathers at any moment.” That made Sigurd tilt his head quizzically.

“My mother used to call me ‘little songbird,’” Blaeja clarified.

He nodded. “That’s the third time you’ve mentioned her.”

Blaeja looked away. “Yes,” she said, not wanting to say anything more.

But Sigurd didn’t let it drop. “Did your father kill her?” he asked.

Blaeja looked up at him in shock. “What?” she asked.

He was looking at her calmly. “You said that you held him responsible for her death.”

Blaeja looked down at her feet, fighting against the memories that were struggling to surface. Memories of a dark room, of a ragged breath, of the stench of death. 

“It is not a happy story,” Blaeja said.

Sigurd watched her calmly, and Blaeja found that she still could not hold his strange gaze for long. “All the more reason to tell it,” he said.

Blaeja shook her head, defeatedly. “Very well. But only this once.”

He nodded, and she wondered where to start. How could she put unspeakable feelings into words? How could she quantify her mother, who had defied description all her life? Blaeja took a slow breath, and threw caution to the wind.

“My mother was like no one else in this world, you know,” she said slowly. She glanced over at Sigurd to see him watching her with an unreadable expression. She laughed sadly. “Sometimes, I was convinced that she wasn’t of this world. That she was an angel of God.” She paused, remembering. 

“She could see the beauty in everything. No matter what my father did to her, he never managed to break her spirit, her belief that you could find the good in everything, if you looked hard enough. She was always smiling, always hopeful.” Blaeja smiled. “She used to sing me to sleep at night, when I was small. Sometimes, I would sing with her. She called me her little songbird, even though her voice was so much more beautiful than mine.

“I always used to ask her how she could have ended up married to my father. In my mind, it didn’t make sense. She was so full of light, and he was made of darkness. She would just smile, and tell me that it was what God had asked of her. That used to make me so angry, the unfairness of it. I would tell her that it was not right of God to ask that she give up her light to feed an insatiable shadow, but my anger never seemed to affect her. She always said that God never asks us for more than we can give.”

Blaeja drew in a breath. “But she was wrong. Even as a child, I knew that she was. Because being married to Aelle killed her in the end.” Blaeja’s voice caught. She took another breath, feeling the weight of Sigurd’s eyes on her, steeling herself for the rest of the story.

“She got sick so slowly. So slowly, no one seemed to notice it taking hold of her, stealing the breath from her body, breaking the strength of her bones. But I noticed. I could see her fading, even as she tried to hide it from me, from my brother.

“But Aelle did not care. My mother gave him everything, yet he still did not care about her. I think that secretly, he hated her for being who she was. Hated her light for throwing his own darkness into sharp relief, for reminding him of what he truly was.

“So, he continued to treat her as poorly as he always did, even denying her the aid of a physician monk to ease her pain. It was after my brother turned three that she began to deteriorate rapidly. During the last week of her life, she was unable to keep even water down, and she was too weak to sit up. And the only one who stayed in that room to tend to her was me.” Blaeja stared straight ahead, determined not to shed a tear, and doing her best to ignore the weight of Sigurd’s eyes on her.

“When I realized that she was going to die, I went to my father, to plead with him to allow a priest to give her the last rights. No man could in good conscience refuse and still call himself a Christian, but that is what my father did. I still remember exactly what he said to me. ‘Let the whore find solace with the devil she has chosen.’”

Blaeja smiled bitterly. “I have never, not once, been so angry in my entire life. Not even when he sold me to you in exchange for peace. The fact that he would deny my mother the right to die in peace, and to be absolved of her sins, was enough to make me hate him forever. But the fact that he called her a whore, and accused her of turning her back on Christ… There has never been a woman more virtuous, and closer to God, than my sweet, pious mother, and when Aelle said that to me, it broke my heart.

“I remember just meeting his eyes for a moment, and then turning to walk away. I said nothing, but I think he understood me in a way that he hadn’t before. Understood the depth of my hatred for him.”

She met his eyes, and held them. “I was ten years old, then, and he has hated me ever since. Hated me, and wished me dead. The only reason that I am still alive is that I was always able to convince him that I was more valuable to him alive than dead.” She finally looked away. “That is why I was able to do what I did with Ivar earlier. It is the same thing I have been doing every day for these past eight years of my life.”

Sigurd was quiet for a moment. “What was her name?” he asked.

“I don’t know if I can say it,” Blaeja said, feeling a surge of fear sweep through her. She had not uttered her mother’s name in eight years.

Sigurd gave a soft sigh, and then, moving very slowly, almost as though she was a wild animal that he did not want to spook, reached out and pulled her back against him, into his arms.

He was very warm, very strong, and Blaeja’s heart gave a curious lurch, redoubling its pace frantically.

“You can tell me,” he whispered. She could feel his breath wandering down her neck, and she shivered.

“Elisabeth,” Blaeja said, her voice barely audible. “Her name was Elisabeth.”

“I can see why you hate him,” Sigurd said.

Blaeja sighed, and leaned against him. “There is more to our story than that chapter. And not all of the blame lies with him.”

What do you mean?” he asked. 

“I was not… not a virtuous daughter. I never have been. I've tried, every day of my life, but I never managed to be the daughter I should have been.”

“Why do you say that?” Sigurd asked her.

“I have never been content to let others make decisions for me,” Blaeja told him. “I was never able to completely put my life into the hands of God, and let him lead me down my path. Even when I was young, I always asked too many questions. Not that it mattered anyway; I still ended up here, as a captive princess who is little better than a slave. I suppose that may be God's way of punishing me for my lack of faith.” She wondered why she was telling him this; he was a pagan, how could he understand? And yet she found that she wanted to explain herself to him, that she wanted his understanding. 

Sigurd gave a small laugh. “You Christians are full of strange ideas.”

Affronted, Blaeja pulled away and turned to look at him. “What? What are you talking about?”

He was smiling and shaking his head. “It seems to me that your religion equates curiosity with sin. That is the silliest thing that I have ever heard.” His smile faded, and he looked at her with a sudden seriousness. “True faith isn’t found in your willingness to follow blindly, but in the pursuit of wisdom, of answers. It demonstrates a commitment in a way that your ‘virtue’ never could.”

Blaeja stared at him. “Is that what you are taught? It was never put like that to me.”

He laughed again. “Like I said. You Christians are strange.”

“No stranger than you,” she shot back, a slight smile curling on her lips. 

“Oh? In what way?” he asked.

“In every way,” Blaeja said.

“That does not make sense,” he said.

“I rarely do,” Blaeja responded drily, and both of them laughed. There was a long pause.

Eventually, Sigurd broke it. “You are nothing like I expected,” he said, a curious smile touching his mouth. “What you did with Ivar… I have never seen anyone do that before.”

Blaeja frowned. “A cornered rat will eventually show fight. My back was against a wall.” She paused a moment. “And how did you expect me to be?”

He pursed his lips. “Less… capable. And certainly not as adaptable as you seem.” He smiled slowly. “And I did not expect you to be a songbird. You have a lovely voice.”

Blaeja looked away, embarrassed. “You should have heard my mother’s,” she said quietly.

“Will you sing something for me?” he asked her. 

“Like what?” she responded, still flustered.

“Something beautiful.” He looked at her expectantly, and when she did not respond, he snorted. “You are unafraid to play with your life with Ivar, yet you are too afraid to sing for me. That doesn’t make any sense.”

Blaeja bit her lip. “It will be in my language.”

He pushed a blond curl out of his face. “I don’t care.”

Blaeja sighed uncomfortably. “Very well then.” And she took a breath and began to sing. Again, it was a lullaby. A sad one, simple, beautiful. She didn’t look in his face, though she knew he was watching her, and tried not to stumble on the words. 

And as she sang, the moon shone down and illuminated her and Sigurd in silver light, as if to make up for the shadows that lurked inside of them both.


	9. Protect You From Yourself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place the day after Chapter 8.

“Aelle broke his promise to you, didn’t he?” Blaeja said

It was midmorning, and she was sitting in one of the chairs around the large table at which she and Ivar had struck their previous bargain. This time, though, there were many more people sitting and standing around it, and almost all of them were men. Blaeja was trying not to show how nervous she was, but had a feeling that she was failing miserably, for it was the first time Ivar had asked her to provide information about Aelle.

She was sitting across from Ivar, who looked even more serious than normal. Sigurd was sitting directly beside her, the weight of his eyes a constant distraction that she was trying desperately to ignore.

“What promise?” Ivar asked. 

“Even though you won the city of York from him using that trick with the ox hide, he has refused to give it to you, hasn’t he?” Blaeja said. “I can only assume that that is why we are not there now.”

Ivar’s eyes narrowed, and he nodded. “Yes,” he said. “He has fortified the town a great deal, and will not let us in. The craven has made it clear that if we want the town, we will have to take it by force.”

“Yes,” Blaeja responded. “That is to be expected. I also assume that he is still residing in the city of Crayke?” Ivar looked confused. “The city you took me from,” she clarified.

Ivar nodded. “Yes. He is too cowardly to defend York himself.”

Blaeja smiled. “That is true,” she said. She leaned back, gathering her thoughts. “Well, there are several things you should know.”

Ivar watched her. “Yes?” he said.

Blaeja looked straight at him. “Aelle is very proud,” she told him. “He is easy to goad into making a mistake. He has little patience; if someone offers him an insult, he will always feel as though he must respond to it immediately, with a show of force. And in this way, he will always let his anger and his pride control him. This is something that you have to make use of if you want to defeat him.” She saw several nods of acknowledgment from around the table.

She went on. “Also, he will most likely have allied himself with Osberth by now.”

There was a stirring of interest. “Who is that?” Ubbe asked, frowning.

“His half-brother,” Blaeja told him. “A lord with a fair holding, with a considerable force at his back. The two of them are not close by any means, though, and Osberth is not like to want to help Aelle for any reason unless he feels that he himself could be in danger.” She giggled, in spite of herself.

“What is funny?” one of the men asked.

“Aelle took the throne from him,” she told him, laughter still bubbling in her voice. “It is quite funny to watch them interact, pretending that they are fast friends, when in reality they quite hate each other.”

“Then why would they ever work together?” the man asked.

“The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” Blaeja told him. “Neither of them can sit on the throne if they are both dead at your hands.”

“How many men does this Osberth have?” Ivar asked.

When Blaeja told him, he nodded. “Then we will still outnumber Aelle.”

She nodded. “Yes. And Crayke is a fair distance away from York. If you are thinking of trying to take that city, I think that it is possible to do it before Aelle and his brother arrive to defend it.”

Several of the men glanced at each other. Ubbe spoke up again, his eyes narrowed. “How did you know that that was our intention?” he asked her.

“Well, it makes sense, doesn’t it?” Blaeja said. “You seem well aware of its strategic value, judging by the fact that one of your first moves was to try to take it from Aelle.”

She looked around at the men. “It would be the best move you could make, strategically speaking. And I think it could be done, with the force you have. Even fortified, that town was never meant to withstand any kind of extended siege. However,” she paused, trying to decide how to word this. “There is something else that you should know.” She put additional emphasis into the last sentence, and saw several heads look up.

“Yes?” Sigurd asked, from very close beside her.

“The people of York are not fond of Aelle,” Blaeja said. “I speak from experience; I spent a great deal of my childhood in York. Aelle is not very kind to the people he rules, and many of them view him as a usurper.” She took a deep breath, trying to decide how to play her cards correctly. Every eye was on her. Blaeja steeled herself.

“I can offer you another way into the city.”

There was a pause. 

Then Ivar let out a laugh. “I see where you are going with this, little princess,” he said. 

Blaeja didn’t give him the chance to say anything else, but went on, desperate to voice her plan. If she wanted to save the people of York, she had to keep going.

“I can get them to surrender the city,” she told him. “I have friends there. People who will listen when I tell them they have no chance against you. They will listen to reason.”

By then, several of the other men had let out snorts of laughter. One, with a rather scraggly beard, spoke up. “Why should we bargain with Christians? With the people that killed Ragnar like a coward? They should pay for what they did.”

There was a murmur of agreement, and Blaeja tensed. 

“The people of Northumbria are not the ones who killed Ragnar,” she said. “And many of them hate Aelle just as much as you do.” She heard a note of desperation enter her voice. “I am trying to give you the opportunity to gain the city without losing any of your people! You will still have the opportunity to kill Aelle later; this is the best option open to you!” Her voice became almost shrill, and she cut herself off, terrified that she had gone too far. Everyone was still staring at her, some with anger, some with contempt, and others with – dare she hope? – a look of interest on their faces.

Beside her, she saw Sigurd lean forward. “I think that it’s worth considering,” he said, glancing at Blaeja but speaking to Ivar. “It would be stupid to throw away more men than we need to.” There was a subtle note of challenge in his voice, which made her glance at him curiously. He turned to look directly at her. 

“You are saying that you can make them give up the city?” he asked. “How?”

Blaeja swallowed, and glanced at Ivar, who was frowning, but seemed to be listening. 

“I know the people who will be in charge of the city in my father’s absence. If I show up at the gate asking to speak with them, they will hear me out. I am their princess.” She did her best to look Sigurd in the eyes.

“And I will explain their situation to them, and let them know that I do not think that there is any way that they could hold the city. I can convince them to surrender it peacefully, and you will gain its strategic advantages without losing any lives.” She lifted her eyes to Sigurd’s, and let the desperation fully enter her voice. “Please, let me do this,” she whispered. 

She did not know what made her say the last part, but Sigurd was looking at her with a hint of sympathy in his gaze. He turned back towards Ivar.

“I think we should try it,” he said. “Even if the princess fails, we can simply attack the city as we planned. We wouldn’t lose anything by trying this.”

Ubbe also nodded. “It is a good idea, if it can be done.” He glanced at Blaeja. “However, I don’t think we should let her go alone. At least two of us should go with her, as insurance.”

Several of the other men also nodded, but the man with the scraggly beard sneered and stalked away. Two others followed him, and Blaeja tracked their progress worriedly. She seemed to have won over Sigurd and Ubbe, as well as several of the others, but she was not out of the woods yet.

She nervously wet her lips. “In order to do this, I am going to need your promise that if the Northumbrians surrender York, they will not be harmed.” Ivar raised his eyebrows, but she continued hurriedly. “I don’t think I can get them to give it up otherwise.”

He was still frowning. “Where’s the fun in that?” he asked. Several others nodded, scowling.

“You’ll have plenty of ‘fun’ when Aelle attacks you,” Blaeja said. “There is more to Northumbria than York, you know.”

Suddenly, one of the women spoke up. She was dressed in man’s clothing and carried a sword, and the sight of her was very disconcerting to Blaeja. “If the little princess thinks that she can do it, I think that the idea has merit.” She paused. “But how will we know what she is telling them? She could easily tell the guards to shoot us, and then she would escape. We wouldn’t be able to understand what she told them, as we don't speak their language.”

Blaeja tensed. “I give you my word that I won’t do that,” she said, as several others murmured agreement with the woman.

“The word of a Christian,” another man said, fingering the knife in his belt. “What is that worth?”

Blaeja narrowed her eyes, trying unsuccessfully to keep her temper. “I could easily say the same about you, pagan,” she fairly spat at him. “Why should I trust anything a godless heathen says to me? And besides, have you really no one here who can speak my language? Even a small amount?”

The man snarled at her. “If you weren’t already Sigurd’s woman, I would take you to bed myself to teach you a lesson, Christian bitch.”

Blaeja was out of her seat before she had even comprehended what she was doing, and would have thrown herself at the man in sheer fury if Sigurd had not somehow caught her by the wrist, stopping her in her tracks. His other hand wrapped around her waist, pulling her against him. Blaeja struggled for a moment, but his grip was like iron, though he did not hold her painfully. But when he spoke, his voice was furious.

“If you speak to her like that again, I will kill you, Gundar,” he spat. “And if you touch her, I will make that death last days.” He let go of Blaeja’s wrist, but kept her tight against him as he spoke. The two men stared at each other for several long moments, open challenges in their eyes, but Gundar was the first to look away. “Get out,” Sigurd said. 

Gundar gave him a look filled with anger before spitting on the floor and stalking away. Humiliated, Blaeja shoved her hand against Sigurd’s chest. “Let me go,” she said. 

He released her calmly, and she jerked away. Sigurd returned to his chair, not looking at her, but Blaeja remained standing, not sure whether she was angrier at Gundar, for his vile words, or at Sigurd, for treating her like she was his woman. 

She was not sure what she would have said next if Hvitserk had not spoken up, sounding as though he were holding back laughter only with a very great effort. “Returning to the subject at hand,” he said, “I am sure there is someone who can speak at least a little bit of the Saxon language. There is that one older fellow who has been here several times. The one with the braided gray beard. I think he can speak some.”

“You mean Axl?” said Ubbe. “You may be right.”

“He is,” said the woman who had spoken before. “Axl can speak a fair bit of Saxon. I will go and ask him if he will go.” She turned on her heel and left, blond hair swinging behind her.

Blaeja stared at the ground, confused and angry, and absurdly unable to push out of her mind what Sigurd’s hand on her waist had felt like. She glared at the men. “You still have not given me your word that you will not harm any of York’s residents,” she said. 

Ivar’s eyes narrowed. “Fine,” he said. “At least initially. But there will be additional conditions that will need to be met for the protection to hold.”

Blaeja glared at him. “Fine,” she repeated back. “Then I will give you the city. Let me know when this Axl agrees to come along.” 

And feeling as though she couldn’t stand to be under that tent one moment longer, she turned and walked away, trying to keep her chin up. 

 

Blaeja fastened her mother’s cloak about her shoulders, over the more ornate dress that she had decided to put on in an effort to appear more like a princess. She knew that the men who were going to accompany her to York would be coming to her tent to get her soon, and she was pinning her hair up hurriedly, trying to think of what else she could need, when there was a cough behind her.

Blaeja whirled around, startled, to see him standing there, smirking. 

“What are you doing in here?” she exclaimed. 

“Rather rude, don’t you think, to leave without thanking me?” Sigurd asked, a playful gleam in his eyes, ignoring her question completely.

“Thank you? For what, exactly?” Blaeja asked incredulously, trying not to show just how uncomfortable he made her.

He took a pace closer. “For stopping you before you did something stupid,” he said, his eyes never leaving her face.

For some reason, that made Blaeja angry all over again. “I don’t need you to protect me,” she said angrily.

He smiled wider. “I’m sure I don’t need to protect you from anyone here,” he said. “But you need me to protect you from yourself. If I hadn’t held you back, you would have done something very stupid, and it would not have ended well for you or your cause.”

He took another step towards her, coming barely an arm’s-length away. Blaeja’s heart began to pound again, and she felt like a nervous rabbit. 

“But now they all think that I’ve… that we…” she floundered, tongue-tied. 

“That we what, Blaeja?” he asked softly. 

“That you took me to bed,” she whispered, feeling her face flush.

He was still looking at her. “You’ve already slept in my bed, Blaeja,” he told her. “So that part is true.”

Blaeja tried to take a step back, but suddenly his hands were on hers, and she couldn’t. She could feel the calluses on his palms, the mark of a warrior. “Not like that,” she said, unable to look him in the eye. “You know what my meaning was.”

“Yes,” he said. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t play with you like this.” But she could hear the smile in his voice.

“Let me go,” she whispered. 

He released one of her hands, but didn’t pull away. Instead, his hand tilted her chin up, until she was looking him directly in the eyes. He was so close, she could feel the warmth of the air around his face, and for a moment she couldn’t breathe. 

“Let me be more direct,” he whispered. “I’m tired of playing games.”

And then he kissed her.

His lips were warm and surprisingly soft, and Blaeja froze in shock only for a heartbeat before she found herself standing on her toes to return the kiss.

He pulled back for a moment, and slid his arms around her, his green eyes filling with a sudden fire before leaning down to kiss her again, not nearly as softly as before. Blaeja wrapped her arms around his neck as he pressed his mouth to hers, giving herself to him with a willingness that she suspected was surprising to both of them.

She wasn’t sure how long that kiss lasted, but when he finally pulled away, her head was spinning, and she could hear herself breathing far too quickly.  
She opened her mouth to say something, to tell him that this was a very bad idea, but didn’t manage to get the words out before his mouth was on hers once more, his hands crushing her against him, and she completely forgot about saying anything. 

Blaeja was not sure what would have happened next if Hvitserk had at that moment not pulled open the flap of her tent and said, “Let’s go. They’re wait-” and then broke off at the sight of her in Sigurd’s arms. 

Face burning, Blaeja tore herself away from him, hearing Hvitserk’s laugh as he closed the entrance and ducked back out.

Her head was spinning, and her heart was racing, but she managed to get out the words, “Why did you do that?”

“Because I wanted to,” he said quietly. “And because you wanted to.” 

She glanced at him over her shoulder, barely daring to look him in the face, to see him smiling.

He gave a soft laugh then. “You are very enticing when you blush,” he told her. “I will wait for you outside.”

And he turned and walked out, leaving her trembling and flushed, and wondering what on earth she was going to do now.


	10. Gesture of Good Faith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really sorry that this took me so long to upload. Life can sometimes get crazy!   
> Takes place several hours after Chapter 9.

“You must be joking, my lady,” Lord Elfric said flatly.

The Northumbrians of York had arranged to meet with Blaeja and the Northmen just outside of the city, since they had completely refused to allow her party inside of it. As a result, it was the three lords and four monks who were looking most nervous, though they were surrounded by a very large contingent of guards. Brother Philip kept wringing his hands nervously.

“We are not joking,” Blaeja responded, trying to keep her voice even. Beside her, Axl, a man with the bushiest beard Blaeja had ever seen, repeated her words quietly to her companions, who consisted of Ivar, Sigurd, and four other warriors that Blaeja did not know. His translation was good, but not perfect, and her companions were watching her closely. Every single one of them had a hand on some kind of weapon, and if some kind of a fight broke out, Blaeja didn’t know if they would go after her, or after her countrymen first.

When Blaeja and her companions had first come within sight of the city, Ivar had pulled his strange contraption on wheels up beside her horse and said, “Just remember, little princess, that if they attempt to kill us, my last act will be to cut your pretty throat. Is this clear? If we die, you die.” His voice had been cold and threatening, and Blaeja had had to fight not to cower. She knew, deep in her bones, that he had absolutely meant what he said.

“My lord,” Blaeja said, forcing her mind back to the here and now. “You cannot hold this city, I tell you this truly. You don’t have the men, and you don’t have the defenses. If you don’t surrender it to them now, they will take it by force. And there will be little you can do to stop them.”

Elfric scowled at her. “How would you know that, woman? What do you know of war?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I know much more than you think I do, my lord, and in this case, even a blind child could tell you this. You cannot hold York.” Elfric turned red, but Blaeja dismissed him and turned to look at Brother Philip, one of the monks whom she had requested to see. She had known him for years, and he was a kindly man with a fair intelligence. Blaeja knew that he was the one most likely to listen to what she had to say.

“Holy Brother,” she said. “Please, will you not hear me?” She could hear a pleading tone creeping into her voice, but carried on regardless. “I am trying to save you. If you surrender the city now, they will let you live. Please, do this for my people.”

He began to look uncomfortable, glancing at the ground, and Blaeja noticed that the three other monks were beginning to look almost – dare she hope? – conflicted.

He cleared his throat. “Princess… I admire your apparent desire to aid your own people, and I think that you might be right.” He turned to his companions. “The army they have with them is too large for us to fight,” he said “Our city, with the current defenses, could not withstand that kind of siege.” Lord Elfric frowned, but Brother Philip continued. “You know that I am right, my lord,” he said. He held Elfric’s gaze until the lord finally looked down. “This chance for peace might be our best option.” His voice was calm, but reluctant. “However…” he said, wringing his hands again, trailing off.

Blaeja felt a worm of doubt enter her thoughts. “However?” she asked.

Lord Oswald spoke up, finishing off Brother Philip’s thought. “But how can we trust that these pagans will actually keep their word?" Brother Philip nodded. "The word of a pagan means nothing. And if we cannot trust them to keep their word to let us live, we cannot deliver the city into their hands.” There was a hint of apology in his voice, but his words still made her heart sink. The other Northumbrians were nodding in agreement.

Beside her, Blaeja’s companions had seemed to notice the fact that she was floundering, and one of the warriors let out a very low growl. Blaeja told herself firmly not to panic. 

She struggled to find the words that would persuade the lords of York, for this was where it was going to be tricky. She took a breath, and gave her answer. “My lord, the city will be delivered to their hands no matter what you attempt to do. I know this; I have seen the size and capability of their armies. Regardless of whether you think you can trust them, this is the best course open to you.”

Brother Cessianus, one of the other monks, tilted his head. “You didn’t answer Lord Oswald’s question, princess.”

She swallowed, uncomfortable, for she had hoped that she wouldn’t have to resort to this. She managed to get out the words. “I give you my word, as your princess, that these Northmen will harm none of you if you give them the city peacefully.”

Several sets of eyes narrowed. 

She heard Axl translating, and then Ivar letting out a sort of laugh. She glared at him, willing him to be silent.

Lord Oswald wet his lips. He was a reasonable man, Blaeja knew, and even Elfric was capable of using his mind. Blaeja prayed that they would do so now. 

Oswald turned to the others. “Elfric, Philip. Conference.” He jerked his head, and the two men moved to follow him a few paces away, where they began conversing in hurried whispers.

Ivar coughed, and Blaeja turned to face him again. His face was becoming more and more suspicious and threatening, and Blaeja’s heart began to race again, fearfully. “What are they whispering about?” he demanded.

“I don’t know,” Blaeja answered.

One of the other warriors spoke up. “This was a bad idea. We shouldn’t be bargaining with these Christians. And the little princess doesn’t know what she is doing.” At this, two of the others nodded in agreement.

“Wait,” Blaeja said. “Please. I can make this work.” She only prayed that she could, but tried to look confident regardless.

There was more narrowing of eyes.

Just then, Blaeja heard footsteps on the grass, and turned to see the three men returning, looking very serious.

Brother Philip spoke first, but it was not what she had expected. “Princess, we wish to speak directly to this Northman,” and he gestured at Ivar. “He is the leader, is he not?” Blaeja nodded, her brow furrowed in confusion. He went on. “This man here can translate, am I correct?” He gestured to Axl.

“Yes,” Blaeja said. “But so can I…”

Brother Philip interrupted her. “We wish to have this man translate.” His face was set, and Blaeja drew back in confusion as he turned to Axl and Ivar. “Is this acceptable to you?”

Axl muttered something to Ivar, who shrugged. “Yes,” Axl replied.

Blaeja was uncomfortably reminded of the night when she had entered her father’s hall to learn that he was selling her like a horse. Something was going on that she wasn’t aware of, and she desperately tried to force her brain into thinking. What was going on here?

Brother Philip was speaking again. “Even if we accept, Northman, that we cannot hold our beloved city against you, nothing that the princess has told us so far gives us any reassurance that you will keep your word, and not harm any of the souls living in York.”

As Axl translated, Blaeja stepped forward, affronted. “I gave you my word, Brother! How can you doubt the word of your princess?!”

Ivar frowned at her. “Be quiet,” he snarled, and she drew back, startled into silence.

Philip continued, hurriedly. “And that’s the other thing. How can princess Blaeja be in any position to make guarantees of what you will do? She is your prisoner, not one of you.”

Ivar nodded, tilting his head as the words were translated. “Continue,” he said.

Brother Philip hesitated, glancing at Blaeja with something like pity in his eyes, and her heart gave another lurch of fear, without knowing why.

“Continue, I said,” Ivar spat at the man. “Unless you are too afraid to look me in the eye?” He laughed, causing Brother Philip to jump.

He didn’t look in Ivar’s face as he stammered out the next part. “We are willing to turn over the city, Northman. We are aware of how large your armies are, and we have no wish to spill the blood of our people.”

And you think that Aelle will come and liberate you, Blaeja thought to herself, but said nothing. 

“However,” Brother Philip continued, “We want a… well, a gesture of good faith, to show that you will keep your word not to harm the citizens of York. And there is one such gesture that would also act to give the princess’s word credibility.” And he glanced at Blaeja again.

There was silence for a moment, and then Ivar suddenly let out a laugh. “Ah,” he said, “I see what you want! Funny little man.” The smile disappeared from his face. “What makes you think that I would want to do anything like that?” his eyes flicked to a very confused Blaeja, who could not work out what on earth was going on.

Lord Elfric suddenly spoke up. “This is the best way for you to show that your intentions toward York are peaceful,” he said. “And it does not have to be you, in particular. Any of the leaders of your pagan army would suffice.”

Blaeja finally found her voice. “What is going on?” she asked. 

But no one even turned to look at her, except Sigurd, who with an expression almost of pity on his face, stepped forward to face the Northumbrians. “I will do it,” he said, calmly.

Every eye swung to him, startled.

Then Ivar burst out laughing. “You, Sigurd?!” he asked incredulously. “You, marry a Christian?!” He continued to laugh mockingly, nearly doubled over as he attempted to catch his breath.

And then Blaeja got it.

She could not, for a moment, remember how to breathe.

“What?” she whispered. “What did you say?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “No.” She was shaking her head, feeling almost hysterical. Don’t faint… “No. I won’t. I won’t do it! I won’t marry a pagan!”

Ivar was not laughing now. “Shut up,” he snarled at Blaeja. Sigurd was not even looking at her, but watching the Northumbrians as his words were translated. 

“You are his brother?” Lord Oswald asked.

Sigurd nodded. Blaeja heard herself let out a whimper, and he almost seemed to glance in her direction, but stopped himself.

The three Northumbrian men looked at each other, not sparing a glance for the princess who was feeling as though the world had been pulled out from under her feet. Then Elfric turned back to Ivar. “Very well then,” he said bitterly. “If your brother weds the princess in a binding ceremony, we will accept your word.” He swallowed, seeming to struggle to get the last part out. “And we will hand over York to you.”

And Blaeja’s world, for the thousandth time in her short life, turned upside-down.


	11. The Dark Valley

“You can’t make me do it!” Blaeja cried at them.

They were back at the camp, under the tent with the large table and the fire crackling to one side, with Ivar the only one sitting, his chair pulled away from the table. Blaeja scarcely remembered the ride back from York. Her vision was still blurry with the tears she was fighting to keep from rolling down her hot cheeks, blurring away the sight of the man she was about to be forced to marry. The taste of betrayal was in her mouth, forcing away whatever common sense she possessed, yet Blaeja scarcely cared. She was not going to do it. She was not going to betray who she was.

As if from far away, she heard Ivar’s voice, soft and teasing. “Oh? Can’t we?” He was finding this funny; she could tell. She could hear the amusement and anticipation coloring his words, grating on her ears.

She blinked the tears out of her eyes and glared at him. He was sitting in a chair, staring at her with a small smile twisting his mouth. Sigurd and Ubbe were standing nearby, watching her. Ubbe seemed to find the whole situation amusing, and kept snorting under his breath as though he were trying to hold back laughter, making Sigurd glare at him. As for Sigurd… Blaeja was too angry to look at him, but he seemed almost uncomfortable.

Ivar was speaking again. “I think that you will find that we have a great deal of methods we can use to persuade you, little princess.” His smile widened as Blaeja clenched her hands into fists, gripping her skirt so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

“Oh, are you finally going to torture me, then?” she asked sarcastically, too enraged to feel any kind of fear. “Then do it! I don’t care what you do to me!” Her voice rose to a scream as she spat at him. “And I would rather die a thousand horrible deaths than find myself in that pagan’s bed!!” and she pointed at Sigurd, who was looking at her as though she had gone mad. Perhaps she had. Blaeja didn’t care. 

Ivar’s smile was still there, as though Blaeja’s screaming was amusing him, and it likely was. Ivar enjoyed causing pain, this Blaeja knew well. “Oh, little princess,” he said, his voice teasing. “Perhaps I can arrange that for you.” He paused, tilted his head, birdlike. Like a hawk preparing to dive onto its prey, Blaeja thought. “But since you don’t seem to care about physical pain, perhaps I’ll try something else.” His smile was growing, in a sort of excited anticipation.

“Of course, I’m sure that my dear brother” (here he glanced mockingly behind Blaeja, at Sigurd) “would prefer that you came to his bed a pristine little virgin, but frankly, I don’t care what he wants. And perhaps you’ll be a little more malleable after I give you to Gundar, so that he can teach you the lesson he desperately seems to want to.” He cocked his head the other way. “And after that, if you still insist on being a stubborn little wench, perhaps my brothers would like to take a taste of you. I’m sure they can find a way to break you down.” He lifted his eyebrows at her. “Are you sure that you still don’t want to do as I wish?”

Blaeja felt as though someone had filled her veins with ice, such was the numbness that was spreading through her body. She could hear the words that Ivar was saying, but they were barely registering in her mind. What he was saying… it couldn’t be possible. It couldn’t be.

“No,” she heard herself say. “You wouldn’t. I am a Christian princess. You wouldn’t dare.”

Ivar leaned forward. “No,” he said. “You were a Christian princess. Now, if I say that you are my bed slave, that is what you are.” His smile vanished as he glared into Blaeja’s eyes. “And I will give you to whom I choose.”

And with those words, all logic, reason, and care left Blaeja’s mind, leaving behind the kind of rage she had felt only once before, the kind that was capable of tearing her apart as it tore its way free of her thoughts. Blaeja knew this, and she did not care. She knew perfectly well that she was about to throw away any chance of reaching a diplomatic solution. She knew perfectly well that these men would likely defile, torture, or kill her if she gave her anger its way. But with those words, she officially did not care. 

And with this perfect, pure clarity in her mind, she strode forward, and with every scrap of strength that her frail woman’s body contained, formed her right hand into a fist and drove it straight into Ivar’s face. 

“I am going to TEAR YOU TO PIECES!!” she screamed.

Blaeja’s punch knocked Ivar over backwards, his chair crashing to the ground, narrowly missing landing in the fire. Blaeja moved forward, to hit him again, to hurt him further, but suddenly Ubbe had her from behind, and was pressing a knife to her throat, painfully hard. Blaeja cried out in anger and pain as he dragged her backwards, and Ivar sat up, massaging his jaw, looking at Blaeja with pure fury in his eyes. 

“If you move, I will kill you,” Ubbe said in her ear, his left arm holding her tightly. Sigurd had his hand on his axe, but had not drawn it. Strangely, a small, hard smile graced his mouth.

Ivar managed to right his chair and drag himself back into it, his eyes darker than Blaeja had ever seen, his jaw already starting to swell. Blaeja’s hand was throbbing, but oh, how she wanted to hit him again, to show him that a princess of Northumbria would never, ever consent to being called a bed slave.

Ivar touched a hand to his jaw, and then looked at Blaeja with pure hatred in his horrible hawk eyes. Then, moving with deliberate slowness, he reached into the small bag he wore across his body. “You are going to pay for that, Aellesdottir,” he said, his voice rough. And then he drew an object out of his bag, an object that was as familiar to Blaeja as the look of her own hands. 

It was her book. The book Brother Ambrose had given her.

And he held it over the fire.

“No!” Blaeja cried. “No! Don’t!” Her vision again began to blur, and she tried to fight her way free of Ubbe’s hold, but it was like trying to move a hillside.

“You really love this silly thing, don’t you?” Ivar asked. “Perhaps you should not have left it out in plain sight. Consider carefully, then. This book, or your hand in marriage to my brother. After all, you do have to consent for it to be binding, which is what your little Northumbrian friends want." He paused a moment. "Oh, and if you don’t agree, Ubbe will go and fetch Gundar here and now, and I’ll let him do whatever he wants to you.” There was no trace of a smile on Ivar’s face, just cold, spitting hate.

“I’ll do it,” Blaeja said. “I promise! Please, please don’t burn it.” She was crying now, and she couldn’t stop it. Her precious book, a token of love and friendship, her only companion in this dark place… to see it so fragile in Ivar’s hand, it broke her resolve completely. 

“You swear?” Ivar spat at her.

“Yes,” Blaeja whimpered, tears running freely down her face.

“Good,” Ivar said. He gestured to Ubbe. “Bring her here,” he commanded.

Ubbe shoved her forward, keeping his knife pressed tightly against her throat, until she was within arm’s-length of Ivar. 

“Watch, little princess,” Ivar snarled, his twisted, hateful smile returning. “Watch.”

And he threw her book in the fire.

Blaeja screamed so loudly it felt as though she had torn something in her chest, and fought against Ubbe with everything she had. But she couldn’t get free, and the book was burning, burning...

“No!” she sobbed, struggling to get to that book, to save it.

And then Ivar’s fist came out of nowhere and struck her in the stomach, dropping her to the ground, and it was all she could do to remember how to breathe. She couldn’t see through the tears that rolled down her face, and heard herself making desperate gasping noises as she fought for air. Finally, she was able to draw in a breath, curling into a ball on her side as her tears ran into the grass that pressed against her cheek.

“You two will be married tomorrow,” Ivar said, his voice sounding a long way off. “So go prepare. And you remember what I said, little princess. Try to refuse tomorrow, and you will wish I had killed you here and now.”

And the sound of retreating footsteps was carried to Blaeja’s ears as she lay crying on the grass, heedless of who saw her in such a state. She thought that all three of the brothers had left until a warm pair of hands gently touched her shoulder and smoothed the tendrils of dark hair from her face.

“Blaeja,” Sigurd said. “Blaeja, please.” His voice was not angry or contemptuous, but she didn’t care.

She didn’t care what he had to say. She hated them all. She hated them! And in the dark valley of her hate, she made a promise to herself: someday, she was going to balance the scales. Even if it took Blaeja her entire life to do it, she was going to settle this debt.


	12. Cold

The wind was howling again.

It was stirring the sides of her tent, swirling icily around her ankles, and delving beneath her dress to chill her skin to snowy white.

But this time, instead of quickening her heart, it seemed to Blaeja that it was slowing down the throbbing pulse of life inside her chest. The slow, mournful howl seemed almost to be coming from her own body, singing the last words to the song of life.

For this would be the day she would die.

Not physically, perhaps. That would be almost a kindness now. 

No, this day would mean the end of her Christian soul. The little-death that would mean total oblivion.

By willingly marrying a pagan in a pagan ceremony, Blaeja was completely forfeiting her place as a Christian princess. Her husband was a killer of Christians. By giving herself to him, Blaeja knew that she was turning her back on her God.

Blaeja felt as though she were made of ice; numb and cold, and fragile, like to shatter at the smallest touch. The spirit of the Christian princess that Blaeja had once been seemed to have blown away on the mournful wind, replaced by the cold spirit now looking at Blaeja in the glass. The spirit of Blaeja Sigurdswife. 

The girl looking back at Blaeja certainly didn’t look anything like the reflection of the Christian lady that Blaeja had used to see. She looked like some pagan goddess of snow. Her skin was white as a cloud, even paler than usual, and so translucent-looking that the delicate blue veins beneath were softly visible. The immodest white gown she was wearing left her shoulders and collarbones bare, like some brazen temptress, for one of the Viking women had insisted on lending it to her. 

That same woman – Thora, Blaeja remembered, the same young shieldmaiden Blaeja had noticed the day before – had set herself the task of weaving Blaeja’s hair into intricate braids and decorating it with flowers, which happened to be in shades of pale lilac, blue, and white, forming a frozen crown on her smooth brow. 

The shieldmaiden had even insisted on lining her eyes with some kind of dark shading, further emphasizing how black they were, like the night without stars. Blaeja thought they looked unnaturally large on her face, making her look even more startling and pagan. She wondered briefly if one of the brothers had sent Thora to make her look presentable.

Blaeja didn’t care.

Thora stood back now and looked at Blaeja in the mirror, one hand on her hip. “You truly are a princess,” she mused. “I doubt any one of us could look so regal if we tried our whole lives.” 

Blaeja did not respond to this, just stood there silently, wondering why this woman was showing her any measure of kindness. 

“Try to look happier, child,” Thora said gently. “This is your wedding day.”

Blaeja closed her eyes for a moment, not wanting to hear those words spoken aloud. When she opened them, a single tear slid from the corner of her right eye, shining like a snowflake in the sun. 

Thora stepped closer to Blaeja and gently laid a hand on her shoulder, her face kind. “Sit down a moment, Blaeja,” she said, gesturing to Blaeja’s sleeping couch. 

Dreamily, Blaeja walked over and sat down, her soft white dress brushing gently against her ankles. Thora settled herself beside her, looking at Blaeja with something like concern. “Blaeja,” she began, “Why do you look so unhappy?”

Blaeja did not respond to this, but simply sat there, detached. Thora sighed. “I know that you have not known him long, child, but Sigurd is not what you think he is. He is a good man, and a kind one.” She paused, peered into Blaeja’s face, which remained remote. She did not look at the shieldmaiden, even when she went on.

“Truly princess, you would be hard-pressed to find a man who believes so much in fairness. You should be happy to marry him.” She snorted. “We can all see that he is more than happy to marry you.”

Here Blaeja finally turned her gaze to the woman sitting next to her. “What are you talking about?” she asked quietly.

Thora was giving her an amused sort of look. “You haven’t noticed the way he watches you? All of us here know that he wants you.” 

Blaeja bit her lip and looked down at her hands. “Yes,” she whispered. “He’s made that clear to me.”

Thora drew back for a moment, looking rather startled. “He didn’t try to force himself on you, did he?!” she asked.

“No!” Blaeja said, shocked. “But he…” she trailed off, remembering the way he’d kissed her, here in this very tent. She was ashamed to remember how she’d given in completely, more than willing to let him do whatever he wanted, like some common prostitute. 

In truth, the memory of that encounter had Blaeja quite afraid. To be made to marry a pagan was bad enough, but to want to give herself to one, to betray everything she was because of the desires of the flesh… Blaeja didn’t know if she could forgive herself for such a thing. The knowledge that her body desired his touch was only making this harder, not easier. And it was a knowledge she knew she couldn’t deny.

And there was the fact that he had stood by and watched Ivar burn her precious book, which was a sharp thorn of anger and pain in her mind. Even though Blaeja blamed Ivar for its destruction, and even though she knew that Sigurd could not have saved it, she was still irrationally angry with him for watching it burn.

And of course, Blaeja was still angry that she had been forced into this marriage. She knew that in all technicality, it was not a forced marriage; she had given her consent. And of all the brothers, Sigurd was the only one who had shown her kindness; Blaeja would much rather be married to him then to any of his kin. But this did not change the fact that her future was being decided by men she feared and hated, and the bitterness she felt from this was hard to swallow. Blaeja tried to remind herself that she was doing this for the good of Northumbria, but it had the same effect as telling the pig headed for slaughter that it is going to save people from starvation. No matter how noble that pig is, there is very little chance that this information will make it happy to be slaughtered.

Thora let out a small giggle in response to Blaeja’s silence. “Yes, I remember Hvitserk telling me about that incident,” she said, laughter bubbling in her voice. “Are you sure you’re dead set against marrying him?” Thora asked wickedly. “From what I heard, you were enjoying yourself tremendously.” 

Blaeja pressed her lips together, and looked away.

Thora managed to stop laughing after a few moments. “Desire is nothing to be ashamed of, little Christian,” she said. “And Sigurd is not the kind of man that would hurt you.” 

Blaeja shook her head. “Please stop,” she said.

Thora shook her head, amused. “All right,” she acquiesced. “But remember: there’s no shame in being human. All right?”

Blaeja managed to nod. 

Thora gently touched her cheek with a forefinger, and then stood. “You really do look beautiful, you know,” she said. “Are you ready?”

Blaeja had expected to feel fear. Anger, pain. She felt none of these. 

She just felt cold.

She stood, and nodded.

Thora smiled. “Then let’s go,” she said. “They’ll be waiting.”


	13. The Sun and The Snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you might have noticed, I'm uploading two chapters at once, so make sure you've read Chapter 12 as well!

The wind was continuing its soft, mournful howl, stirring the grey clouds overhead. 

Thora had been right; several of the men were waiting outside, all of them looking either stern or anxious, especially in the case of Lord Elfric, who must have come as a witness. He had two guards with him, but was looking understandably uneasy.

Close to him stood a man that Blaeja had seen before, whose name she did not know, and who was carrying a smirking Ivar over his back. One of Ivar’s eyes had darkened to a deep purple, making Blaeja feel a slight spark of petty satisfaction, though the knuckles of her right hand still ached abominably.

Next to them stood Sigurd.

He was wearing a dark, embroidered cloak that was likely considered very fine by Viking standards, and made quite a picture paired with his fair hair and eyes, which Blaeja tried not to notice. He didn’t look uneasy, just very serious, but again Blaeja marveled at how young he looked. He couldn't have been but two or three years older than she. 

As soon as he saw her, his gaze fastened onto her form with such intensity that Blaeja wanted to look away.

Several other men and women stood around them as well, watching.

For a moment, there was silence. 

The wind stirred the loose pieces of Blaeja’s hair, its mournful howl the only sound in the silent world.

Thora was the first to break it. “She looks lovely, doesn’t she?” she said quietly, glancing at Sigurd. 

He gave no indication that he’d heard her speak, but stared at Blaeja with an unreadable expression. Not for the first time, Blaeja wondered if she’d ever be able to read the swirl of emotions in his strange green eyes.

Ivar broke in. “So innocent-looking!” He glanced at Sigurd. “Are you sure you’ll know what to do with her, brother?” he asked spitefully. 

To Blaeja’s surprise, Sigurd let out a mocking laugh, finally tearing his eyes away from her. “This coming from you, boneless?” he asked, a small smirk on his lips.

Ivar’s face flushed red, but, as usual, Ubbe stepped forward, shaking his head warningly at his crippled brother. Angrily, and rather surprisingly, Ivar clamped his mouth shut.

Meanwhile, Blaeja stood there like a stone, barely watching them, her eyes on the swirling movement of the clouds overhead. She felt as though she were walking through a kind of half-formed dream, the kind you can never remember when you wake, but leaves you with tears on your cheeks regardless. At least there was no danger of those; the wind would dry them on her skin as soon as they fell. She softly sang a few notes to the sky, wordless, wondering if she should bother with a prayer. Wondering if God would even listen to her, given what she was about to do. 

She was so lost in thought that she barely noticed when Sigurd spoke again. “I want to speak with her,” he said, looking around at the other Northmen. “Leave us for a moment.”

There was a small pause in which several glances were exchanged. But then Ubbe shrugged his shoulders. “If you wish, brother,” he said, as he turned to walk away. The others, with some curious glances at Sigurd, followed. Thora smiled at Blaeja before she turned away as well. Even Lord Elfric went, after Hvitserk unceremoniously clamped his hand onto his shoulder and pulled him away. They did not retreat very far, only a few dozen paces, but courteously stayed out of earshot and did not stare at the strange couple. 

And Blaeja was left alone with Sigurd, and with the wind.

She did not look at him, even when he stepped closer, close enough to touch her. He was carrying himself stiffly, and she thought she detected a certain sadness in his face. She hummed a few more notes as he seemed to search for something to say. 

“You look lovely, Blaeja,” he said, finally, his voice quietly blending with the note of the wind. 

She did not look at him. Did not respond. She just watched the clouds. Wondered briefly if it would snow soon.

Therefore, she didn't notice him reach his hands out, and almost jumped in surprise when he took her hands in his own. Confused, she finally met his eyes, which were staring into hers with a mixture of sadness, anticipation, longing, anger… and more things. How he managed to contain all of that in his eyes, or to convey it to her so clearly, Blaeja had no idea, but it took her breath away for a moment.

His hands were warm and strong, and toughened with calluses, so different from her own. Hers were the hands of a dying princess: smooth and white, and cold. The sun and the snow, Blaeja thought, as he squeezed her hands gently.

And not for the first time, she marveled at just how different he was from her. How could she ever hope to understand him? Can the snow ever live in harmony with the sun?

Sigurd took a breath. “Blaeja…” he began, his eyes not leaving her face, “Will this really be so bad?” Blaeja thought she detected the smallest note of desperation in his voice, almost hidden behind the other emotions it contained.

Blaeja looked away. 

“I thought you were coming to trust me,” he said, slowly releasing her hands, the desperate sadness in his voice slowly growing. “Do you really hate me this much?” He paused a moment, his eyes searching her face, which she kept resolutely turned away. “Blaeja, there is so much we can do together,” he said, and she finally turned her eyes back to him.

“Like what, Sigurd?” she asked, her voice frank, and sad. “This is the end for me.” He seemed almost to recoil, his eyes hurt, almost angry, but she went on. “I can never go home now. Thanks to you, I am an outcast.” She looked straight up at him, meeting his eyes sadly as he pressed his lips together, the bitterness evident in his expression.

For some reason that she could not name, Blaeja felt the cold stone of her heart soften fractionally as she looked at him, and she reached up to gently touch his cheek. His green eyes bored into her own, as direct, honest, and sad as her own eyes must look to him. She shook her head, and let her hand fall back to her side with a sigh. “Make of this world what you will, Sigurd,” she said, feeling a bitter sadness of her own creep once more into her chest. She began to turn away. “There is no place left in it for me, thanks to you.”

Sigurd caught her wrist, swinging her back to face him, a sudden fire kindling in his eyes. “You are wrong, Blaeja,” he said, his voice low, surprising her with its intensity. “You are wrong.” His musical voice grew in volume and in strength as his earlier bitterness seemed to vanish from his face. “Because before the gods,” he continued, “I make you this promise here and now.” He let go of her wrist to place his hands on the sides of her head, to Blaeja’s surprise, though she didn’t try to pull away as he drew her closer and forced her to meet his eyes once more. 

“You will always have a home with me,” he said, speaking slowly, deliberately. “Where I have a place, so will you. My home will be your home, my family your family, and my people your people, who will welcome you as they welcome me.” He paused, not taking his eyes from her face. “Do you understand this?” he asked. "As you are mine, I am yours. And my place in this world will be your place also."

Another pause. "Tell me you understand," he said.

And Blaeja simply stared at him.

She was trying not to let him see just how much his words were touching her. She could feel the raw honesty they contained, and it held her speechless. She realized that no one had ever said anything like that to her before. Not even her mother had made her any kind of promise of that magnitude, that contained the devotion that Sigurd had put into his words.

The wind blew a short braid of his hair across his face as they stared at each other in silence, neither one able to look away.

“Why?” Blaeja finally whispered. “Why do you say this?”

“Why do you think?” he replied, almost smiling now. “Because I don’t ever want to lose you.”


	14. Choices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that many of you saw that awful episode of Vikings last week, and I want you to know that despite the enormous departure from actual history that happened on the show, (what they did to Sigurd was not what happened in real life) I am still going to finish this story. I hope that all of you will continue to read it.   
> Enjoy!

They were married atop the hill, close to the sky, by an old priestess with long, gray hair. 

It was a very simple, hurried affair, even by Viking standards; they had no time for anything else. 

Only a few witnesses were looking on, with varying degrees of seriousness, unhappiness, or anger. Lord Elfric was scowling again, and wasn’t looking anyone in the eye, least of all Ivar, who sitting in a chair quite close to Blaeja. He was fiddling with a knife, his jaw set.

For her part, Blaeja stood as though she had been carved from ice, saying the words required of her, the flutter of her dress and the movement of her tendrils of hair the only signs that she wasn’t a statue.

Sigurd stood before her, very fair and wild-looking, blond hair hanging to his shoulders, his expression unreadable. The whole time, he’d not taken his eyes off of Blaeja, who was staring off into the distance, trying to make sense of the feelings in her mind. If she was to be honest, she still had no idea how she felt about the man standing in front of her. He’d said that they’d been coming to trust each other, and maybe that was true. He was certainly nothing like the way she had expected a Ragnarsson, and a pagan, to be. It was a simple question, in the end: Did she trust Sigurd because of who he was, or did she fear him because of what he was?

The question was simple, but the answer was anything but.

She wondered if Sigurd trusted her. Wondered if he loved her. What he’d said about having a home with him… she’d never heard anything like that before. Perhaps he did love her. 

Then again, perhaps he’d said that to other women in the past. Had he even had other women? How little she knew about this man, this man who would be her husband! 

Good God! As the shock of realization fully hit her for the first time, Blaeja felt a hollow sort of panic.

Ragnar had been right, and she had been wrong.

How could this be happening? 

Blaeja forced the panic away, told herself to stay calm. 

Her hand was in his, so pale and cold. A ring was slid onto one of her numb fingers. It was silent for a moment, even the wind holding its breath. And then Sigurd stepped forward, almost cautiously, and she remembered that she would have to kiss him. So, feeling strangely disconnected, she stepped into his arms, and he briefly, lightly, pressed his lips to hers. 

For a moment, the wind was the only thing moving through the stillness, tugging gently at their clothes and hair, curving around them as she stood rigid in his arms.

And with that, it was done. Viking weddings weren’t drawn-out affairs, for which Blaeja was grateful. There was no cheering either, no congratulations. Why should there be, for such a political arrangement?

Sigurd stepped back, his hands sliding off her shoulders. “Not much longer, songbird,” he said, giving her a small smile, which she returned mechanically. He jerked his head at Lord Elfric as the priestess stepped away from them, turning to say something to Ubbe. “Would you translate for me?” Sigurd asked. Curious, wondering why he wanted to speak to Elfric, Blaeja nodded.

He turned to the Northumbrian lord, who took a small pace back. Sigurd snorted in amusement. “Does this satisfy you, little lord?” he asked, contempt coloring his voice. “I suspect it doesn’t. You have no respect for the true gods, only for your Christian one.” He paused, and Blaeja translated. Elfric scowled still more deeply, and opened his mouth to reply.

Sigurd didn’t give him the chance. “But I have something else to say,” he continued, his voice growing in volume. Around them, all of the witnesses fell silent, turning to see what Sigurd was doing.

“Because I don’t consider my wife to be my slave, as you Christians do, her beliefs will be honored as well,” Sigurd said. He glanced at Blaeja, who repeated his words to the Northumbrians. There was a strange look on Sigurd’s face, something she couldn’t place, and Blaeja wondered what he was doing.

“When we get to York,” Sigurd said, “We will be married in a Christian ceremony.” 

And here he turned completely towards her, looking away from the Northumbrians, who still didn’t know what he’d said.

For Blaeja was simply gaping at him. For a moment, she had no idea what to think. A strange feeling was welling up in her chest, and the scene in front of her began to blur. With a shock, Blaeja realized that she was about to cry. 

Hurriedly, she shoved away that feeling, determined not to cry in front of these men, and tried to blink back the water in her eyes. She took a deep breath, and told the Northumbrians what Sigurd had said, her eyes on him the whole while.

She heard an exclamation of surprise, but she did not turn to look. Her eyes were on Sigurd, her husband, who had just shocked her in a way she’d never expected. 

Was it possible that this wasn’t the end of her Christian soul? 

“What do you say, Blaeja?” he asked her softly.

“I…” she whispered, her words trailing off. She had no idea what to say in the face of such a gesture. However, she didn’t get the chance to say anything else, because Ivar picked that moment to call out.

“Are you going to become a Christian then, Sigurd?” he asked loudly.

Sigurd closed his eyes in annoyance, his lips tightening. Then he turned to his crippled brother, who was smiling in disdain. 

“As a matter of fact, Ivar,” he said, “I have something to say to you too.” And before any of them could react, he drew back his fist and hit Ivar in the stomach. “That’s for what you did to my wife yesterday,” he spat. Everyone there gasped.

Ivar was knocked backwards off his chair onto the ground, where he lay making choking noises as he tried to get his breath back. Sigurd turned away, dismissive, a satisfied smile on his lips. 

Blaeja felt her own lips curling into a smile as Sigurd turned back towards her. For a moment, their eyes met, and some kind of understanding passed between them. A mutual hatred, a mutual feeling of justice. Sigurd extended his hand to her. “Shall we?” he asked, still smiling.

Blaeja hesitated only a moment before placing her hand in his. And without looking back at the angry Ivar yelling at them from his prone position on the ground, they walked back down the hill together, their fingers entwined. 

 

By the time they returned to the camp, someone (Thora, Blaeja guessed) had taken it upon herself to move all of Blaeja’s belongings to Sigurd’s tent. When Blaeja saw this, it sent another hollow sort of panic through her mind, for it was then she realized that she was to sleep in his bed that night. She supposed that this should have occurred to her beforehand, but the thoughts of the wedding had eclipsed any thoughts of their wedding night, and, as a result, Blaeja hadn’t even begun to consider what living with Sigurd as his woman would be like. 

She was going to have to eat with him, talk with him, lay with him. She was going to have to live with him, until one or both of them died. Seeing her tent gutted and bare quickly made it real, and brought a fresh wave of panic over her, which she tried desperately to keep from her face.

Oh, dear God, Blaeja thought. Help me. The sea has swept in and I’m drowning. 

A dinner had been prepared for them, though in keeping with the very rushed theme of their wedding, it was no more than the usual fare. They ate it quickly, knowing that most of the camp would need to be ready to leave the next morning, and that there was a great deal to do. 

But for the first time, Blaeja drank some of the ale that was placed in front of her. Perhaps it will make this night easier, she thought to herself.

But much, much sooner than she would have wished, Blaeja found herself in his tent, shivering in her rather thin gown, for the night had turned quite chilly, catching her in the iron teeth of the wind.

Sigurd was standing a few paces away, his back to her, rifling through his things. Blaeja took the opportunity to look around, noticing the lute leaning against his bed. She’d seen him play it once or twice, but she’d never heard him sing, and wondered at that.

His tent was not a bastion of order, which was something she’d noticed the last time she’d been inside it. In fact, it was actually quite messy, which did not surprise Blaeja. Sigurd struck her as a person whose mind was always on the future, instead of in the here and now, always off in the distance.

Blaeja realized then that she was trying to distract herself, and just as quickly realized that it wasn’t working. She tried unsuccessfully to swallow past the nervous lump in her throat. 

Sigurd finally straightened, and turned to face her. Blaeja took an involuntary step back, her heart already pounding, and a look of alarm came over Sigurd’s face. “No,” he said. “No no no.” He raised his hands in a gesture that one might use to try and soothe a wild animal. “Blaeja,” he continued, his tone reassuring, “It’s all right.” 

He paused, and took a small step towards his wife, who was not reassured, and who knew that she looked like a frightened child. “I… don’t want you to fear me,” he said. “So I’ll try not to give you reason to. I…” he seemed to search for the right words. “Well, I won’t touch you until after we are married in York. To hell with what Ivar thinks. All right?”

Blaeja frowned in surprise. “Oh,” she said. For a moment, she didn’t quite know what she should say, or think. “Thank you.” There was a pause. She wondered why he was giving her this concession, and why he’d mentioned his brother in the same breath.

“You really do hate Ivar, don’t you?” The question seemed to burst from her lips of its own accord, but Sigurd didn’t seem surprised.

“Can’t you see why?” he asked, his voice frank.

“Yes,” she said softly. “I think I would rather be dead in the ground than be married to him.”

To her surprise, Sigurd let out a laugh. “For more reasons than you know,” he said.

Blaeja was not entirely sure what that meant, but could feel herself beginning to relax. Of course, the wind chose that moment to lift itself into a gust, disregarding the thin gown she wore to set its chill fingers on her body. She crossed her arms over her chest, involuntarily, wishing she knew where her cloak was, or, even more, that she could climb beneath the furs of her own bed. Despite what her husband had said about not touching her yet, Blaeja was rather reluctant to share a bed with him.

Sigurd noticed the action, and took a pace closer. “We have to be up early on the morrow,” he said. “And you look cold. Will you come to bed?”

Blaeja looked away, realizing she was flushing, and didn’t move except to bite her lip.

Sigurd sighed. “Blaeja,” he said. “I told you I wouldn’t try to take you. Come to bed before you turn blue.”

And the wind gusted again, setting her teeth chattering. Reluctantly, Blaeja nodded, and slowly began to undo the fastenings of her dress. She was aware of Sigurd watching her, his gaze very direct, and felt more blood rise to her face as she tried not to move with too much embarrassment. Regardless of any promises he’d made, she knew that the desire was still there; it was quite evident when he turned his gaze to watch her undress. Soon, she was clad only in her shift, her hair falling around her shoulders. 

Blaeja looked for somewhere to leave her dress, and ended up hanging it from the back of a small chair. By this time, Sigurd had climbed into his bed, clad only in his long shirt. Blaeja had not expected this, and briefly considered running away. Just refusing to come any closer. It would have been an attractive prospect, had she anywhere else to go. Firmly, she told herself not to act like a child, and, blowing out the one candle, climbed in beside him, careful not to let her skin touch his. The warmth of the furs was quite comforting, and Blaeja sighed.

“Are you still afraid of me, wife?” Sigurd asked her quietly.

“I don’t know,” she heard herself whisper, feeling his breath on her face. “Should I be?”

He sighed. “I’m not going to hurt you,” he told her. “I’m not Ivar. I thought you might’ve realized that by now.”

“Yes,” Blaeja said, feeling strangely ashamed. “I do know that.”

“Then why are you afraid?” he asked.

Blaeja closed her eyes. “I don’t know, Sigurd,” she said. “Perhaps I’m really just afraid of myself.”

He was quiet for a moment. “All right,” he said, a note of confusion and possibly amusement coloring his voice. He shifted, and she felt his hand touch her cheek, roughened and warm, and somehow comforting. “Go to sleep, Blaeja,” he said.

And she proceeded to do just that.

 

In her dream, she was standing atop the world. 

She had never been so high up before, so close to the stars. She felt as though she could have reached out and touched them as they glittered coldly above her. The wind gently caressed her cheeks as she turned her gaze to the land below her. Somehow, she knew that it was frigidly, bitterly cold in this place, and yet she knew just as surely that the cold could not touch her. She could see a small city below her, people small as ants, with tall, rocky mountains rearing up around it before plunging into the glimmering sea. It was on the tallest of these that she stood, wondering if this was how the gods saw the world.

Blaeja had always loved being up high. The beauty she felt in solitude, and quiet, and distance, had always seemed to wait for her upon the tops of the highest hills, the branches of the tallest trees. 

And standing here, atop the world, Blaeja felt as though she could spread her arms and fly, fly upon the sheer joy she felt in her heart. She had no idea where she was, but it did not matter. She was where no one could touch her now.

And then she heard something, something that gave her pause. 

A voice. 

Low, quiet, indistinct. She froze, strained her ears, trying to make out what it was saying, where it was coming from. Behind her? She tried to turn around, but realized that her feet were fixed in place.

And the voice continued to grow, deep and musical, swelling on the rising wind, wreathing itself around her. But she still could not make out what it was saying, still could not turn to look. Somehow, without having to be told, Blaeja knew with utter certainty that this was not the voice of a human. This was the voice of something else, something greater, and her heart began to pound. And it was growing closer, closer, closer…

“Who are you?” Blaeja called out, frightened. 

And then, suddenly, her feet were free. She spun around, terrified that she was about to find herself face-to-face with a demon, with a monster, quivering with dread.

But it was a man that stood in front of her. 

Tall, clad in a dark cloak that obscured any features of his face and body, standing completely still. The moon, behind him, seemed to pick him out sharply against his background, outlining him in silver. He looked almost human, but she was absolutely sure that this man was something else. Something terrifying.

For a moment, even the wind held its breath.

“Who are you?” Blaeja dared to whisper, her heart in her mouth.

The figure tilted his head, and the voice swirled around her again, seeming to come from the wind itself, ancient and deep. “Make your choice, Blaeja,” it said. 

And Blaeja’s hand lifted of their own volition, and, seeing what she held clasped in each one, Blaeja let out a cry. 

In her right hand was a cross, sticky, smeared red with blood. And in her left, Blaeja held a knife. Keen, wickedly sharp… and familiar. It sat in the palm of her hand as though it had been made for her, as though it were hungry for her to use it. 

And as she looked, the blood began to drip from her hand to the ground, each drop seeming unimaginably heavy, causing the rock below her feet to groan. Somehow, without having to be told, Blaeja knew with terrifying certainty that the blood was her own, dripping from her fingers onto the mountain. Her own heart’s blood. 

And then the voice spoke again, louder than she had ever heard anything before, the mountainsides ringing with the terrifying echoes of it. “CHOOSE.”

She woke up with a scream.

Beside her, Sigurd started awake, a knife in his hand before he’d even sat up. “What- what?” he said, alarmed at the sudden panic, as Blaeja sat there, her heart pounding, tears running down her cheeks. 

“Blaeja!” Sigurd exclaimed, pulling her close, wrapping his arms around her. “What is wrong with you?” 

For a moment, Blaeja couldn’t speak. The echoes of that terrifying dream still had her trembling, and when she opened her mouth, she found that she couldn’t speak. So she just clung to him, not speaking, her tears rolling down her face, wetting his shirt. Trembling.

“Shh,” he said. “You were dreaming. It’s all right.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, as the trembling began to abate. 

Sigurd stroked her hair down her back, a touch that she felt as far down as her knees. Suddenly, she was very aware of how close they were, pressed against each other through their thin clothing, she practically sitting on his lap. She drew in a breath.

Sigurd must have felt her stiffen, because he began to pull away. And to Blaeja’s absolute dismay, she suddenly realized that she didn’t want him to. She could not have named the feeling that was welling up in her chest, but it clamped down on her with such intensity that for a moment she could barely breathe, and, scarcely knowing what she was doing, she stopped his hands from sliding off of her body. 

For a moment, both of them froze. Blaeja felt as though she were back on the mountain in her dreams, standing on the cliff. The smallest movement would send her falling into the unknown abyss below her, and she could tell that Sigurd felt the same way. 

And then his hands tightened on her waist, and he leaned down to press his mouth to hers. And with that touch, Blaeja gave up, and threw herself from the cliff, not caring about anything but the here and now. Her dream, her doubts… she simply shoved them aside, and wrapped her arms around her husband to return the kiss.

It started out gently, slowly, but as he pulled her more tightly against him it became something much hungrier, more demanding. Blaeja could feel his heartbeat even through the shirt he was wearing as his hands slid up her back, sliding her shift over her head.

Blaeja had thought beforehand that this would feel somehow unchristian, irreligious, especially given that her husband was a pagan. But when she pressed her skin against his, as his shift joined hers on the floor, they ceased to be Christian and pagan, Saxon and Viking. Here, they were simply man and woman. 

Her head was spinning as the kiss became deeper, as his hands went to her thighs. She realized she was trembling, though she wasn’t certain if that was from fear or excitement, for both emotions were running rampant through her body. 

“I won’t hurt you,” he whispered, feeling her quiver in his arms.

She ran her hands over his back, marveling at how warm and strong he felt, so different, and somehow familiar. She could feel how much he wanted her, pressed against him as she was. “I don’t care,” she whispered back. “I don’t mind.”

She could feel him smile, wickedly, as he pressed her back against the pillows, as they gave in completely, as the world fell away.

 

Afterwards, they simply lay there, still entwined together. Blaeja wondered if she should be afraid; she had crossed a line that she could never go back over, in willingly joining herself to a pagan. 

But she found that, to her surprise, she wasn’t. She’d made her choice.

“You never told me what you dreamed about,” Sigurd said, sometime later, after they’d at last gotten their breath back.

Blaeja shifted against him, recalling the terror she’d felt when she watched her blood pool on the ground, with that shadowy figure demanding that she choose. “I don’t know what it was about,” Blaeja said. “And truthfully, I don’t want to. It was…” she shook her head. “It was awful.”

“It wasn’t about me, was it?” he asked.

“No,” Blaeja said. “I stopped being afraid of you some time ago.” She smiled sadly to herself. “It was my reaction to you that I was afraid of,” she told him softly.

He took one of her hands, laced his fingers through hers. “You’ve never been with a man before, have you?” he stated.

“I was a Christian princess,” she returned. 

Was. Was. What was she now? “I was always taught that this was sinful.”

Sigurd laughed. “That is stupid,” he snorted. “Why is it sinful to be human?” 

“It was the way of my world,” she told him simply.

He let go of her hand to push her hair behind her ear. “You’re part of my world now,” he said. 

Blaeja reached out to touch his cheek. “I know,” she said. “I chose you, remember?”


	15. Ice on the River

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the long absence. College and broken computers are things. More chapters to come soon!  
> Takes place during the same night as Chapter 14.

Outside, the wind stirred the edges of the tent, blending in with the raised voices that could be heard through the camp. The weather had started to turn colder, the wind carrying the promise of imminent snow on its breath, and Blaeja felt uncomfortably glad to be sharing a bed with someone, someone who held her close, his heat mingling with hers. 

It still felt strange to call Sigurd her husband, for he was nothing like the husband she’d always imagined she’d have. And the bond between them felt so fragile, so brittle, like the thin ice that formed over the cold rivers at the first sign of winter, for Blaeja knew that this marriage could be destroyed in a heartbeat. If her husband’s people fell to her father’s…. What would happen to them then? Sigurd would die, and then, if she did not die as well, she would be a captive among her own people, held forever in suspicion, considered useless now that her husband had taken her virginity. 

As certain as she knew that winter was on its way, Blaeja knew that her only hope of a future rested with the man who lay beside her, whose hands were absently toying with her hair as she rested her head against his chest.

How had her life come to this?

Suddenly, Sigurd’s voice broke through her reverie. “Blaeja,” he said. “That… possession of yours that Ivar burned… what was it called?” There was frank curiosity in his voice, and Blaeja remembered that his language had no equivalent of the word “book.” For some absurd reason, this brought a smile to her face, even as she felt a small shaft of pain pierce her heart at the memory of her book, and of brother Ambrose, her quiet, stoical friend. 

Blaeja pushed herself onto an elbow, facing Sigurd. “It was a collection of stories, written down for me by a friend,” she told him. “We would call it a book.”

“Hmmm.” His voice was thoughtful. “What were the stories about?”

Blaeja wasn’t sure if Sigurd had ever heard of the people called the Romans, so she kept her answer vague. “A great military leader,” she said. “A warrior from long ago, before the Christ was even born.”

“Really?” he asked. “A Christian princess, interested in stories about pagan warriors?” his voice was teasing.

Blaeja shoved him gently, in mock indignation, but Sigurd took her by the waist to pull her tightly against him. “Then again,” he whispered, “You did just marry one.”

She snorted. “It wasn’t exactly by choice,” she returned, her voice teasing, even as the feeling of him pressed against her made her heart quicken like a frightened rabbit’s. “Maybe I actually hate you.”

Sigurd laughed in earnest. “Then why is it that every time I put my hands on you, you respond as willingly as any woman I’ve ever had?” he asked wickedly, leaning forward to touch his forehead to hers.

Blaeja was suddenly thankful for the darkness, which hid the bright color she knew had risen to her face. “I…” she responded, knowing she was caught. He laughed again, and then saved her from the need to respond by kissing her deeply, whereupon all of the half-formed thoughts in her mind fell apart as her body responded eagerly to his touch. 

By the time the kiss ended, her stomach was fluttering again. She’d twined her arms around his neck, but didn’t move as he spoke. “Hmm,” Sigurd said, amused. “No, I don’t think you hate me.”

This time they both laughed.

“Ivar should not have burned your stories,” Sigurd suddenly said, his voice losing its amusement, and becoming much colder, quieter. “I am sorry. I should not have let him do that.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” Blaeja returned. “And you rather made up for it earlier.”

He snorted in amusement. “I don’t think I hit him as hard as you did,” he said. “I was impressed.”

Blaeja winced. “I shouldn’t have done that,” she said, shifting a little bit against him.

“Why do you say that?” Sigurd’s voice was curious.

“I let my temper run away with me again,” she admitted.

He was silent for a moment. “Blaeja…” he said. “You say that as though it’s a bad thing.”

“What?” she responded, confused, her forehead crinkling.

His arms tightened around her. “That fire that you are so ashamed of is the reason I wanted you in the first place.”

She was silent, taken aback, wishing she could see his face.

“Do you remember when we first met?” he asked, his voice almost wistful. “It was when Ivar and your father were bargaining for peace, and Aelle offered us you. He promised that you were beautiful, and old enough to bear children, and offered to show us. That was when he brought you out into the hall.” Blaeja’s mind flashed back to that awful day, recalling the bitter sense of betrayal that she’d felt when she’d realized that her father was selling her like a horse. Sigurd continued. “You looked so haughty, and poised, and more regal than I had ever seen any one person look.”

“I was terrified,” she broke in drily, and he laughed softly.

“You were trying not to show it, though, I could tell. But then you raised your voice to Ivar, and your father hit you. In front of all of us, like you were his slave. I still remember the way you looked when you got back up. Your looked so full of hurt and anger, and I could see the defiance boiling behind your facade, building like fire. And then you poured your goblet onto the floor, with such deliberation… I’d never seen such fire in a woman before, even in a shieldmaiden. And I realized that I wanted you for my own.”

He fell silent for several heartbeats.

Hesitantly, Blaeja cupped his cheek in her hand, feeling the coarseness of his boyish beard, the warmth of his skin. “I don’t know how this happened,” she said quietly. She paused, her breath mingling with Sigurd’s, neither of them moving.

“I was afraid of you at first,” she said hesitantly. “But you actually treated me with compassion, and kindness. I…” she shook her head. “I should thank you for that.”  
She felt his cheeks lift into a smile, but she wasn’t finished. “And I do want to be yours,” she whispered, her heart filling with a kind of fierce certainty that made her lean forward to kiss him, slowly, the fever-warmth and softness of his lips familiar now, but no less disarming.

He returned it gently, with an indescribable sort of sweetness that made her head spin. 

And even though the fragility of their union was still so apparent, so glaring, Blaeja felt that it was at the same time as hard as granite, because no matter what happened, she would not allow herself to be separated from him, this man who was one of the few people who had ever treated her like a human. “I’m not leaving you, Sigurd,” she whispered, lacing her hand through his. “I won’t.”

“There's my fiery princess," he said softly, stroking her hair once more, and giving a small yawn.

Outside, the wind continued its mournful howling, but its cold couldn't touch them as they eventually fell asleep, curled around each other in their marriage bed. 

Blaeja's last thought before the soft darkness of sleep pulled her under was that perhaps this sweet fear in her heart was love.


	16. Something to Prove

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains some explicit content. DO NOT read this if that is not something you enjoy.  
> Thank you all for being so patient with me and for leaving such kind comments on previous chapters. You truly are the best.  
> Chapter 16 takes place the day after 15.  
> Enjoy!

The sun had barely risen over the horizon when they set out from the camp, its soft glow tinging the whole world with gold. The dew on the grass glittered softly like jewels strewn from heaven by some benevolent angel’s hand. The air was turning colder, biting at Blaeja’s hands as she awkwardly clutched the reins of her horse, making visible her breath visible before her face.

Nevertheless, it was a beautiful picture. 

But Blaeja did not feel in any mood to appreciate it. Instead, she was in turn gripped by raw anxiety, guilty, worry… and giddiness.

One moment, the thought of returning to York as the willing wife of a pagan made her feel something that went beyond anxiety and began approaching sheer terror. Despite the fact that she had done all that she had done in order to protect the people of the city, she could not predict the reception she would receive one they arrived there. It was entirely possible that the people she had once called her own would spit on her, see her as a traitor, a wanton. She tried to remind herself that none of the people of York could possibly know the true depth of her betrayal, her abandonment of the Christian values that scorned the desires of the flesh. None of them could read about what she had done the night before on her face, could they?

And then, absurdly, she was smiling again at the thoughts that this line of thinking brought to her mind, and at the sight of the person riding before her. A momentary lightness lifted her heart out of its chasm of uncertainty as she watched him absentmindedly push a piece of his fair hair out of his eyes. Her enemy one day, her husband the next. A man who despised her family and all they had done to his, and yet made no secret of his compassion and desire for Blaeja herself. Sigurd.

How strange it was that amongst the people Blaeja had always viewed as the most inhuman of God’s creations she had found a person who seemed to her to be human like no other.

And even though her body was still slightly sore from their lovemaking the night before, a stubbornly persistent and wicked part of her mind could think of nothing but what would happen between them when they were next alone. Sigurd had not been precisely gentle, but she’d enjoyed it all the same. The feeling of his hands pressing her legs apart… Blaeja felt herself blush and hurriedly ducked her head, pushing away the thought.

Not quite in time to slide past the keen eyes of the woman on her other side, though, who let out a sort of snort, and nudged her horse closer to the blushing princess beside her. 

“So you enjoyed it, then?” Thora whispered, a sly smile on her full lips.

“Will you be quiet?!” Blaeja hissed back, twisting in her saddle to glare at the blond warrior.

This just made Thora giggle more. “I told you Sigurd knew how to handle a woman,” she said, not taking the slightest heed of Blaeja’s words. “And from the look on your face, I’d say that he made you well aware of that.”

Blaeja felt the simultaneous desire to knock Thora off her horse and to turn tail and run. Thankfully, a hasty glance around told her that no one else seemed to be within earshot. “Thora,” Blaeja said through clenched teeth, “I’ll knock you off your horse if you don’t shut up.”

Thora laughed in earnest. “You’re too sweet to do that, little princess,” she teased, loud enough to make Sigurd turn around. He raised his eyebrows at them, and Blaeja’s face felt hot.

“I’d be careful, Thora,” Sigurd said, his voice amused. “She may look sweet and innocent, but she’s a regular little fireball if you press her.” Blaeja glanced at his face to see him grinning at her, something almost suggestive in his eyes, and she looked down, mortified.

Thora laughed, and Sigurd snorted. “Why don’t you find someone else to go bother, Halsdottir?” he said good-naturedly. “Before my wife throws you off a cliff or some such.”

Thora shook her head, smiling. “All right, Sigurd,” she said, wheeling her horse around.

Blaeja watched her ride away, towards the back of the column, and then turned to find Sigurd waiting for her. She looked down again at her hands.

“I’m sorry about that, Blaeja,” Sigurd said, still sounding like he was trying to swallow his laughter. “Thora is… sometimes a lot to handle.”

“I’ve noticed,” Blaeja said drily, and he gave a soft laugh. For a moment, there was a gentle silence as Sigurd again nudged his own horse forward. A tall man with dark hair jogged past them to say something to Hvitserk, who was riding several meters ahead. 

“Do you think that this will work?” Blaeja suddenly blurted.

Sigurd tilted his head. “What do you mean?”

Blaeja waved her hand vaguely. “This,” she said. “This plan. Will it actually work?”

“You tell me, Blaeja,” he said. “It was your idea.”

Blaeja winced. “I know,” she said, not able to think of anything else to say.

Sigurd sighed. “For what’s it’s worth,” he said. “I do think that this will work. But, I suppose it will all depend on how smart those little lords of yours are.”

“What do you mean?” Blaeja asked, watching him confusedly.

“Well,” he said, “If they break their word and refuse us entrance to the city, or, even worse, try to fight us, it will not end well for them. Based on what you’ve told us of their armies, we outnumber them by a great deal, and also thanks to you, we know their defenses quite well. If it comes to a fight, they won’t be able to hold out for long.”

Blaeja felt a worm of fear twist through her belly. “I don’t know, Sigurd,” she said. “It would not be as easy as I made it sound to Elfric.”

Sigurd laughed. “And that’s another thing. Elfric is with us. If his compatriots don’t keep their word, Ivar will cut his throat. That little lord knows it, too.” He turned to look at her squarely. “And we don’t need York yet, Blaeja,” he said. “Our path forward would be easier if it were ours, but it is not essential. If it comes to that, we can simply leave.”

“And go to kill my father,” Blaeja whispered, a guilty pang making her press her lips together.

“Yes,” he said gently. “York will be much easier to capture-”

“Without the threat of Aelle at your back,” she finished.

Sigurd seemed to sense her discomfort. “Don’t be afraid,” he told her. “I don’t think we will have to take that path yet. We made a bargain with them, and if they’re smart, they will honor it. The gods spit on men who do not keep their word.”

Blaeja was silent for a moment. “You’re going to hunt Aelle down eventually, aren’t you?” she asked very quietly, looking down at her horse’s mane once more, unable to look Sigurd in the face.

“Yes,” he said. “You know that.” There was a pause, in which Blaeja pursed her lips and stared off into the distance.

“Aelle deserves death, Blaeja,” Sigurd said firmly. “And you know that, too.”

“No, Sigurd,” Blaeja said softly. “It’s not up to me to decide that.”

“What?” he said. “In what way? You have every right to wish him dead. He treated you like a slave, refused your mother comfort on her deathbed! Blaeja!”

Blaeja finally looked up at him, seeing the shock on his face, the hint of anger behind his eyes making her stomach churn uncomfortably. “I know, Sigurd,” she said. “I know that better than anyone. But it is not up to me to say what he deserves.”

Sigurd shook his head in bewilderment. “You told me that you hated him,” he said.

Blaeja was startled, felt her eyes widen. “I do hate him,” she said. “He betrayed me, sold me, and for that, I hate him more than anyone!” She looked her husband in the eye, wanting him to understand. “But…” she struggled to find the right words, to explain herself correctly. “But that doesn’t mean that I am in a position to pass judgement on him, to play God and say that he deserves to die.

“Do you understand what I’m saying?” she finished hopelessly.

He simply stared at her. “You are not like any woman I’ve ever met, Blaeja,” he said finally.

But he said it with a smile, shaking his head in amusement, and Blaeja felt relief sweep through her.

“The same is true of you, Sigurd,” she said. 

He grinned.

 

In the end, Sigurd had been right.

The lords and monks of York kept their word, and the gates of the city were opened for them.

As Blaeja rode through the gate, she felt strangely light-headed. She had not been to York, the city she had grown up in, for many long months, and seeing it again made her feel a strange, bittersweet happiness. Everything looked unchanged: the beautiful church, with its tall spire, her father’s large house, with several stories. Even the houses of the townsfolk looked relatively unchanged. But at the same time, the sameness of everything seemed almost mocking, taunting her with its lie. The girl that Blaeja had been when she’d last rode away from the city seemed so far away now, and the life she’d had was lost to her forever. The few people who had not locked themselves inside of their houses looked at her with suspicion, with fear, with anger, another testament to the life that Blaeja had lost.

But still, Blaeja had done everything she could to secure their safety. Ivar had promised that no one would be killed, and she desperately wanted to believe that he would keep his word. She hoped that the village girls would keep their heads down for a while, though; Blaeja knew what these men were like around their female prisoners. 

The sun had set several hours ago by this time, but none of the men seemed tired as Blaeja and the five Ragnarssons walked through the doors into her father’s house. Lord Oswald and several guards, as well as brother Philip and another monk she did not know, stood waiting for them. Well, four of the brothers walked. The man with the scraggly beard carried Ivar on his back, whose eye was still purple, and whom Blaeja was completely refusing to look at. 

Lord Elfric and his two men hurried towards the other Northumbrians looking very relieved, and the guards closed around them as well.

Beside Blaeja, the brothers paused in their step, turning to face the Northumbrians.

Every single face was set. 

“We kept our side of the bargain, Northman,” Oswald said, his voice cracking slightly. He was still afraid of the brothers, Blaeja realized. “Now you have to live up to yours. If any of the good Christians of York are killed, God will know you as an oathbreaker.” 

Blaeja realized he was speaking to Sigurd, whose eyes had narrowed once she finished translating. “Don’t you question my honor, Christian,” he said. “I know what promises I’ve made.”

Oswald looked still more wary as Blaeja conveyed this to him, but Sigurd continued. “This reminds me,” he said. “I promised my wife that we would hold a Christian marriage ceremony when we arrived here. You will do this for us.” 

As he said this, Sigurd glanced at Blaeja, giving her a small, quick smile.

“What did he say?” Oswald demanded. 

“My husband promised me that he would marry me in a Christian ceremony when we arrived here,” she told him, turning reluctantly away from Sigurd. She was rather unsure of how Oswald and his companions would react to this unorthodox demand, but continued. “He wishes this to happen here, and soon.”

Oswald looked startled. “He what?!” he sputtered.

Elfric spoke up. “I witnessed this pagan make that promise,” he said. “God only knows why.” His voice contained no small amount of derision.

“Truly?” said brother Philip, his kind face registering nearly as much amazement as Oswald’s. “This pagan wishes to take part in a Christian marriage ceremony?”

“Will you do it or not?” Blaeja asked, hearing the impatience swimming in her voice.

“Well…” said brother Philip. “I suppose that it would be possible. Bishop Edwin is currently in the city; he could perform the ceremony. And it would make the marriage, and the alliance, more legitimate.” 

Ivar suddenly turned to look at Blaeja. “What are they saying?” he demanded angrily.

“Hold on a moment,” Blaeja told him shortly, turning back to Philip, and switching languages again effortlessly. “Then you agree?”

There was an exchange of glances, and then Oswald shrugged. 

“Very well, princess,” said Philip. “But it will have to wait for at least a day or two, in order to make preparations. Will your husband accept this?”

Blaeja turned to Sigurd. “They will do it,” she said, relieved. “But it may be a few days. Is that all right?”

Sigurd shrugged. “I do not mind,” he said.

Blaeja gave the Northumbrians a nod.

“Now, will you let us in, please?” Blaeja asked, again hearing the impatience in her voice. 

The lords glanced at each other, and then, with a fair amount of scowling, stepped aside.

“Cowards,” Hvitserk grumbled to himself.

 

Blaeja had not thought of what it would feel like to see her old bedchamber again, and when she opened the door, she stopped short, causing Sigurd to walk straight into her, whereupon he promptly swore.

Blaeja barely took any notice, such were the strange mix of feelings welling up inside of her chest at the sight of her bed, her looking glass, her bible, all standing as though frozen in time, bringing half-remembered memories swimming back to the front of her mind. How could they still be here, so perfect, when the life they represented had been lost so completely?

“Blaeja?” Sigurd said, pulling her into the room and closing the door firmly behind them when she did not respond. “What is it? You look disoriented.”

Blaeja shook her head. “I just… can’t believe that it is all still here,” she said. “Especially when I don’t feel like the same person who last left this place.”

Sigurd looked around, eyes taking in the bed, the wardrobe, the bible.

He scowled as his eyes rested upon the last item.

“Sigurd?” said Blaeja.

He turned. 

“What is going to happen after this war?” she blurted, not knowing where the question had come from.

He looked startled. “What do you mean by that?” he said.

Blaeja twisted her fingers together, the doubts and uncertainties in her mind that had first made themselves known on their wedding night pushing their way to the forefront. “I don’t know, Sigurd,” she said. “I’m…I’m just afraid.”

“Afraid?” he asked. “Of what?”

She looked away. “I’m afraid that something will happen, some circumstance will get between us, and then I’ll never see you again.”

Sigurd did not move. His strange, beautiful green eyes were locked onto her, making her feel slightly uncomfortable. 

Finally, he spoke. “Where is this coming from, Blaeja?” he asked.

She looked away. “I… I think it was seeing all of this,” she said quietly, gesturing around the room. “Being back here, in my old city. It reminded me of just how easy it is to lose everything in an instant.”

She glanced back at him to see him still rooted to the spot, his mouth tight. “Blaeja,” he said slowly. “No matter what the world does, you are mine. And I don’t care what damned circumstances try to ruin that fact, it will still be there.”

It was Blaeja’s turn to be frozen, wondering if she’d made him angry. He took a pace towards her, green eyes flashing. “Sigurd, I…” she said, trailing off.

“Are you going to make me prove it to you, Aellesdottir?” he said, coming even closer. Blaeja took an involuntary step back, but his left hand closed on her wrist and his right slid over her waist, holding her firmly in place. Her heart began to pound as his eyes met hers, flashing with something hot, something almost angry. “Because I will.”

“What are you-?” Blaeja began, but didn’t get the rest out as Sigurd began to kiss her, not gently, as he had the night before, but insistently, hungrily, pulling her tightly against him as she opened her mouth and kissed him back. His lips were fever-hot, his hands gripping her hard as the kiss continued, deepening still further. Blaeja could feel the thoughts in her mind flying apart as her body trembled at his touch.

“You are mine, Blaeja” Sigurd whispered, tearing his mouth from hers to give her a sharp bite on the neck, making her gasp. “And I’m going to make sure you understand that.” 

The feeling of his lips on her neck, on her jaw, was sending more shudders down Blaeja’s body, making her want nothing more than to give her husband exactly what he wanted. She wrapped her arms around his neck as he again pressed his mouth to hers, her heart pounding in excitement.

Sigurd lifted her onto the bed then, pushing her dress up over her hips. She felt him pin her wrists to the mattress as she willingly opened her legs for him, wanting the lesson he was teaching her, wanting to forget everything and join herself to him as permanently as she could, knowing that he felt the same.

His eyes caught hers and held, hair swinging around his face as he pressed himself inside her. Blaeja heard herself give a wordless gasp and wrapped her legs around him as he began grinding her into the bed, his motion reaching her womb with every stroke.

“Do you understand?” he growled at her, his hands gripping her wrists still more tightly, his breath hot in her face. “You belong to me, as I belong to you.” Their movement became more desperate as Blaeja opened her mouth to speak, to respond, but then her hips twisted helplessly against him, ecstatic warmth surging through her in waves, and all that came out was a soft moan. 

Not two strokes later, Sigurd gave a strangled groan and pressed hard against her, into her, and she felt the flood of his release mirror the sense she felt, the feeling that she was going to dissolve in his arms, dissolve into him, become one creature, one body, one person. 

“Blaeja,” he whispered. “Blaeja."

 

Sometime later, they lay beside each other, their gradually slowing breathing in almost perfect synchrony. Gradually, Blaeja began to pull the fragments of her thoughts back together, wondering if Sigurd felt as dissolved and drained as she did. She pulled her now-wrinkled dress back down over her hips.

“Sigurd,” she heard herself finally say, “I do understand.”

She heard Sigurd let out a small laugh. “Good,” he said, stroking her hand. Suddenly, he lifted it towards his face, gently touched her wrist. “Oh, Blaeja,” he said. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you like that.” Confused, Blaeja turned onto her side and held her wrist in front of her eyes, noticing the quickly darkening bruises there.

To her own surprise, she laughed. “I don’t mind, husband,” she said, meeting his eyes.

He smiled, leaned forward to kiss her softly. 

Several minutes later, they were both asleep.


	17. In the Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a real brat for taking this long to post this; feel free to cuss me out in the comments.  
> This chapter has a fair amount of smut and even more fluffiness, for which I do not apologize. Ah ha ha ha!

Blaeja wondered if she’d ever be able to sleep through the night. 

It must’ve been several hours after she and Sigurd fell asleep in a tangle on her bed when she awoke suddenly. She could see that the moon had risen outside her window, the light gently illuminating the rumpled bed and the man sharing it with her. It wove through Sigurd’s fair hair, turning it to silver as he slept. 

It picked out the curve of his cheekbone, his jaw, casting his beauty into such sharp relief that Blaeja caught her breath. Few Christian women would feel anything but terror upon seeing his face, but Blaeja had come to love the wild fairness of him.

Carefully, she pushed herself off the bed, wincing at the soreness encircling her wrists, and at the sweeter soreness between her legs, which she supposed was to be expected. Her first time in bed with Sigurd had not been as painful as many women had told her it could be, but there had been no getting around the fact that she had been a maiden. There was certainly no way around the fact that Sigurd had not made any pretext of gentleness when he’d taken her again a few hours ago. 

Despite all that, she found herself smiling as she glanced at her husband, sprawled asleep across her childhood bed.

She’d not bothered to wash herself before falling asleep, so she could feel that his seed had dried sticky on her thighs, and her hair was a tangled mess.

In short, she needed to bathe, and since she couldn’t sleep, she might as well do it now.

But then she heard Sigurd shift on the bed behind her, and turned quickly. She hoped she had not woken him, but that hope was dashed when he rubbed his eyes pushed himself onto an elbow.

“Blaeja?” he asked, looking around for his wife to see her standing by the window. “What are you doing?”

“I didn’t mean to wake you,” she said quietly as she sat down again beside him.

He sat up completely, smiling in an amused sort of way before leaning in and kissing her gently, his warm breath intertwining with hers. “Why are you awake, little bird?” he asked.

She brushed a finger over his cheek, shaking her head. “There’s something I want to show you,” she said. “Will you come with me?”

He tilted his head. “What is it?” he asked.

She smiled. “You’ll see, once you get up.”

He gave a yawn. “I suppose this is what I get for marrying an owl,” he groused as he stood up, though Blaeja saw that the smile did not leave his lips.

“You could always give me back to my father if you liked,” she teased.

 

She brought him to the baths.

While not nearly as large or as ornate as the ones she knew King Ecbert possessed, they were still quite a luxury, and Sigurd stopped just inside the doorway, looking rather dumbfounded. 

“This is one of the few things I enjoy about this house,” Blaeja murmured. “And Heaven knows we neither of us is very clean.” She glanced at him. “Will you come in with me?” 

“You want me to bathe with you at this time of night?” Sigurd asked, a hint of incredulousness in his voice, though he did not look too upset at the prospect.  
Blaeja found herself grinning. “You can always go back to bed, husband.”

He mock-glared at her. “You are an irritating tease, woman,” he said. “One of these days, I am going to have to teach you some manners.”

Blaeja laughed, the lightness in her chest strange, unfamiliar. “Turn around so I can take this dress off, Sigurd,” she told him.

He gave her another look. “I’ve bedded you twice now Blaeja, and you are worried about my seeing you naked?”

“Yes,” she said. “Turn around.”

He rolled his eyes, muttering something about the strangeness of Christian women, and complied.

Blaeja hurriedly undid the laces of her dress, and pulled both it and her shift over her head. She realized that her heart was thudding nervously, wondering if Sigurd thought her a wanton for doing this. She firmly reminded herself that Viking men did not expect their women to be chaste and fearful, and that Sigurd had kissed her before they were even married. He would not be offended by something as trivial as a bath.

Slowly, she slid into the slightly steaming water, and had to fight not to let out a moan. Blaeja had not realized how tense her muscles were until now, and the warmth felt like pure bliss on her body, soaking soothingly into her very bones.

Sigurd must have heard the soft splash as she slipped in, for he’d turned and was pulling off his own clothes, making a point of looking her in the eyes the entire time. He had the muscles and catlike grace of a warrior, and she fought to keep her face neutral at the sight of him. Then she felt the blood rush to her cheeks as he yanked down his trousers, and looked down hurriedly at the little waves lapping at the tops of her breasts.

He laughed, and she knew he’d seen her blush.

When he entered the water, she heard him give a sharp inhale.

“I can see why you like this place,” he said quietly, his fingers finding hers and twining through them.

She met his eyes and smiled. “I thought you might enjoy it,” she returned.

Blaeja let the gaze continue for another few moments before turning away and reaching for the comb she’d brought with her. Sigurd splashed water over his face as she leaned her head back and felt her long hair fan out around her head. The water caressed her neck and shoulders, lapping gently at her ears.

Rather predictably, when she sat up and tried to run the comb through her hair, it was quite hopelessly tangled. She sighed in frustration as she felt several stubborn knots, and started tugging rather harder than she meant to. 

“Are you trying to yank it all out?” Sigurd commented merrily, trying and failing to hide his smirk.

It was Blaeja’s turn to glare at him as he moved towards her. “I used to have Eleanor do this for me,” she muttered, tugging again at the knot. 

He shook his head, that infuriating smirk still playing with his lips. “Give me the comb,” he commanded. “And turn around.”

“What are you doing?” Blaeja asked curiously, as he took it from her hand.

“Just turn,” Sigurd said, and she did.

He rested a single finger on her shoulder, moving it slowly down her back before sliding his hand into her hair, and Blaeja felt his touch as far down as her knees.

She fought not to tremble at the feeling as he began to gently untangle the knots in her hair, moving with far more patience than she had. 

Never in her life had a man touched her this intimately. She had always been taught that her hair was not for the sight of men, so as not to tempt them into sinful thoughts, and even letting it down made Blaeja feel wanton. Having a man comb it for her while they were both naked? It felt wicked and exciting, and she wondered if Sigurd knew how much this was affecting her. Blaeja was hyper aware of his every touch, noticing every time his nimble fingers brushed across her neck, her back, light as the touch of a bird’s feather.

It might have been a minute or an hour before his hands finally worked out the last knot, running the comb through her now-untangled locks. Blaeja knew that she was flushed and excited, and it took her a moment to find her voice. 

“Thank you,” she whispered, as his hand came to rest on her shoulder. 

She had no warning, none at all. One moment, she was standing still, Sigurd’s hand the only thing in contact with her body, the water calm around them. The next, his arm was sliding around her waist and his mouth was on her neck.

Blaeja heard a choked gasp escape her lips as Sigurd drew a line of kisses up to her jaw, excruciatingly slowly, flooding her entire body with tingling. His beard tickled her cheek. Blaeja had not expected this to escalate quite so quickly, and wondered if she should pull away, but her body was telling her to stop thinking, stop worrying, give in as Sigurd’s hand traveled down over her thigh.

“You’re trembling,” he murmured into her ear, wicked amusement in his voice.

Blaeja turned towards him then, obeying her body and lifting her face towards his as he gathered her against him.

It was a long kiss, and deep, and Sigurd was as flushed as she when they broke apart, the mark of the serpent in his eye seeming even clearer as he stared at her. It was becoming quite clear where this was heading by now.

Blaeja closed her eyes and struggled to pull her mind back from the places that Sigurd had just sent it, telling herself firmly to get a grip on herself. She forced herself to draw back a little, reached for the comb still clenched in his hand. “Wait, love,” she murmured, because he was reaching for her again. “Let me do the same for you.”

“Blaeja…” he protested.

“Turn,” she said.

He clenched his jaw and did.

As Blaeja set to work with the comb, she couldn’t help but run her fingers over his neck, feeling the smoothness of his skin, brushing away a droplet of water. There was a long, narrow scar on the top of his right shoulder, and Blaeja wondered what could have caused it. Hesitantly, she touched her lips to the very end of the white line, knowing she was tormenting him but unable to help herself. 

“Blaeja…” he whispered again, desire thick in his voice, obviously feeling the same torment she was.

She did her best to ignore this, and took another piece of his light, curling hair in her hand, using the comb and her small fingers to work out the knot she found there. She hoped her fingers weren’t trembling too obviously.

“How did you get that scar?” she asked quietly.

“I was training with my brothers,” Sigurd answered, his voice slightly roughened. “Ubbe struck me with a dagger accidentally.”

Blaeja let her fingers trail over the line again. “It healed well,” she murmured, feeling him shudder under her hand.

She moved on to another knot. Sigurd drew in a long breath. “Blaeja,” he whispered. “You’re torturing me.” 

She tried to ignore this too, along with the throbbing desire his words had gathered between her legs. She was partially successful. 

Thankfully, working out the knots didn’t take very long. As she untangled the last one, she noticed that her breath was coming in quick little stutters, in a combination of a spoonful of nervousness and an ocean of excitement. She ran her hand through his curls. She was not naïve – she had known full well what was likely to happen between them when she’d brought him here, but she was surprised that waiting for him like this felt like such a sweet torment. 

When he felt her hands leave his hair, Sigurd turned in the water to look at her, and something in his eyes took her breath away. It was desire, and anger, and affection, the promise of wonderful and awful things if she gave him his way. Even in the water, Blaeja could feel how wet she was for him, every nerve in her body longing for his touch. Fleetingly, she wondered how she could be this excited for him after only a few hours since he had last touched her, and then wondered no more.

“Come here,” he said, his voice seeming to drop several octaves as he regarded her.

Blaeja obeyed.

Sigurd pulled her into his arms, biting at her earlobe gently, grinning when she whimpered like a kitten. His breath felt heavy on her neck. Blaeja desperately turned her mouth towards his, and the kiss he gave her felt like drowning, her mind spinning away into the water. She wrapped a leg over his hip, grinding herself against his full erection, making him groan and dig his hand into the flesh of her ass. 

It made her feel like a whore, made her feel almost dirty, a traitor to her Christian blood as she mewled and gasped.

That only excited her more.

Sigurd gave her no time to think about it, pulling away from her long enough to sit down on the ledge that ran just below the water, bringing her down onto his lap so that she straddled him. The water slapped against the edge of the bath.

For a moment, they stared at each other, chests heaving. His lips looked swollen and pink from their breathless kissing, and she knew that hers must look the same way.

“You make such lovely sounds,” he whispered, his mouth curving into a mischievous smirk. The fingers of one hand were moving up her leg, swirling teasingly against her skin. “Do you really want me this badly?” His fingertips were probing at her folds now, and Blaeja heard herself whimper again.

“Sigurd,” she managed, “Please—”

He slid a finger inside her, and she gasped.

“Gods,” he whispered. “What did I do to make you this wet?” His eyes were very direct, filled with a heat that the mark of greatness seemed to make even more pronounced.

Blaeja felt torn between mortification and euphoria at the obvious display of her own wanting, tried to open her mouth to say something, only to have Sigurd stop her with another long kiss. She realized that she was grinding against his hand as he added a second finger, curling them inside her in a way that was driving Blaeja mad. The warmth of the water rushing into her made his touch seem even more foreign, even more delicious, and Blaeja felt a matching heat start to gather in her core. Her wet hair clung to her neck as she tore her mouth from his and pressed her face into his shoulder, her breath rasping in her throat… and then Sigurd stopped.

As he withdrew his fingers, still grinning, Blaeja felt like a landed fish, gasping, her cunt throbbing with need. How had he done that? “Why did you stop?” she whispered.

Sigurd nipped at her lip. “I’m not waiting any longer,” he told her firmly.

Heat flashed through Blaeja at this, and it was her turn to reach beneath the water. She wrapped her fingers around his manhood, giving an involuntary gasp as she realized how hard he was for her, how swollen. She gave him a little squeeze, heard his breath catch, and then lined him up beneath her. Sigurd wrapped both arms around her body as she started to sink down onto him, his cock penetrating her like a caress. He groaned into her ear, moving his hands to her hips to press her farther down his length. She could make no secret of the fact that she was trembling now, though her body was starting to recognize her husband’s much more easily. He felt almost… familiar now.

“Let me do the work, love,” he said, running his hands up her back and meeting her eyes again.

Blaeja nodded, barely, before moaning softly in pleasure as Sigurd began to move, rocking his hips into hers over and over, his manhood stretching her with each thrust. She could tell he was trying to be gentle, to not leave marks on her as he had the last time, trying to kiss her with sweetness and not with force. It was making her heart pound like nothing else, for their last time had felt deliciously wicked, but this was something else altogether.

Sigurd was pressing into her body faster now, his cock beginning to throb inside of her, the same tension he had started with his fingers building once more. The end made Blaeja cry out as her walls clenched around him, forcing her to shut her eyes against the waves of heat flowing from her core. Sigurd groaned as her body clamped down on him, and she felt him shudder as he spilled his seed inside, a deep throbbing that seemed to her to go on and on. Panting, Sigurd buried his face in her hair and made no move to let her go, which she did not mind in the slightest.

Time drifted by unnoticed. 

It was many long breaths before Blaeja was able to pull back and look at her husband, feeling as though she’d come an inch from dissolving into the warm water. His cock was softening slowly inside of her. She touched her fingers to Sigurd’s jaw, meeting his eyes again and wondering if there was anything she could say. 

But he spoke first.

“What would you say to moving our bed in here?” he joked softly, lips curling up at the edges.

Blaeja let out a quiet snort of laughter, shaking her head and smiling shyly. “Did you… really enjoy it that much?” she asked, curious. “I... didn't know whether you would want me like this.”

He took her hand, rolling his eyes. “Blaeja,” he said, “I’ve not wanted any woman as badly as I wanted you just a minute ago, and I had you only a few hours previously. Yes, I enjoyed it that much.”

“Oh,” Blaeja said, not knowing how she should respond. Sigurd was the first man who’d ever taken her to bed, after all. “Well, me too.”

Sigurd laughed, which made Blaeja’s heart lift a little more. So much of the time he was frowning sadly, and it was a sweet feeling to know that she'd made him smile. 

“Well, that’s good,” he said. “Based on those noises you were making, you were either enjoying it or were in a great deal of pain, and I think I prefer the former.”

Blaeja knew that she was turning scarlet, judging by Sigurd’s fight to hold a straight face. “You are entirely too easy to tease, Blaeja,” he laughed. 

She shoved his shoulder jokingly, sliding off his lap and off his cock, leaning her head once again into the water, floating dreamily on her back.

“We should probably go back,” she murmured, glancing at him. 

A strange look came over Sigurd’s face, and he froze for a moment before holding out a hand to her. “Wait just a moment,” he said. “I’ll be right back.” And he grabbed the edge of the bath and pulled himself out, not seeming to care about the fact of his nakedness as he ran to the door and out into the hallway, leaving Blaeja more than a little startled behind him.

"What...?" she heard herself say, hoping that Sigurd wouldn't run into anyone on his way to... wherever he was going.

A few minutes later, he eased open the door again, carrying something wrapped in a piece of leather in his hand. Blaeja watched in confusion as he slid back into the water, taking care to keep the whatever-it-was from getting wet.

“What is that?” she asked quizzically, raising her eyebrows. 

“Something I only managed to find yesterday morning,” Sigurd told her, his usual calm solemnness coming back over his features, water still dripping from his hair. He seemed to hesitate over his next words. “Do you… know of our tradition of the morning gift?”

“Yes,” Blaeja said hesitantly, “But…”

Sigurd held up his hand. “I didn’t really have time before our wedding to find something suitable,” he said. “So I was planning on giving it to you after the Christians marry us. But…” he suddenly looked almost shy, not meeting her eyes. “I would like you to have it now.” And he unwrapped the cloth.

For a second, Blaeja felt as though she could not breathe. 

She had never been especially dazzled by material wealth, usually preferring to wear simpler dresses and cloaks, but even she had to make an exception in this instance, for the necklace he held before her was more beautiful than anything she had seen in her life.

It was a complicated, delicate pattern of glittering white stones set close together to form a design reminiscent of vines, or perhaps the path of water droplets. They curled and twisted before coming together to form a point, from which hung three pale blue stones that glittered like frozen tears. Blaeja stared, openmouthed, for she could barely imagine what it must be worth. With something like that, Sigurd could likely have bought half of the kingdom of East Anglia. 

“Dear God,” she heard herself say. “It… it looks like frozen moonlight. Where did you find that?”

He smiled gently. “You shouldn’t question a gift, Blaeja.” The necklace glittered in the candlelight as he came closer. “Will you accept this?”

“Of course, Sigurd,” she said. “I have never seen something so beautiful before. I…” she trailed off, unable to put the lump in her chest into words.

He smiled at her. “Turn around then,” he murmured.

When she complied, she felt him lift her wet hair from her neck and fasten the necklace beneath. It was heavier than it looked, and she lifted her hand to touch it, feeling as though it was something that was meant for someone far more beautiful than she.

But when she turned back to Sigurd, he looked pleased. “It suits you,” he said, nodding. “Frozen moonlight to decorate the woman who sings to the moon from the hilltops.”

“Oh,” Blaeja murmured, realizing why her husband had given her this particular gift. 

And his time, it was she who pulled him in for a kiss, which lasted several heartbeats before she pulled away.

“Sigurd,” she murmured. 

“Mm?” he responded.

“Thank you.”


End file.
